A Quiet Kill (16 page)

A few moments before, Sharon Carruthers had stormed into Mary's apartment. She had seemed a raging demon to Mary, who had twitched her head rapidly in confusion and fear at Mrs. Carruthers's attack. At first Mary didn't understand what Mrs. Carruthers was saying. There seemed to be a lot of noise, and Mrs. Carruthers's glossy peach lips were moving quickly up and down and sideways, but Mary couldn't understand a word. Then things slowly came into focus and Mary heard her saying, “What do you mean you forgot to send them out, you stupid little cow?”

“But we called everyone,” Mary whimpered, “and everybody will come. I must have left some of the invitation cards here at home, and they weren't sent out. I worked on them here, you see. But most of them went, really. People are arriving anyway, aren't they? We phoned everyone.” She was nodding quickly, up and down, hoping to convince this Fury.

“You dense little moron!” screamed Sharon Carruthers. “You stupid, witless imbecile! Get out of here!” she shrieked, momentarily forgetting that she was in Mary's apartment. “I don't want to see your stupid face ever again! Get out! You're fired, finished!”

With that, Sharon Carruthers had spun around and left as quickly as she had arrived.

“Wow!” exclaimed Wilkins,
eyeing Liz approvingly. “You look fantastic. No wonder the Mounties always get their man!”

She laughed and looked up at Hay a bit hesitantly. “Yes, you really do look lovely,” he said quietly. She did, too. There was something of a Botticelli painting about her tonight, although he wouldn't dream of saying so. He had, after all, completed all the mandatory courses in gender awareness. They hailed a taxi to the High Commission. It was well within walking distance, but one didn't get gussied up like that to trudge the streets of London.

The guests had
begun to arrive. Wesley Carruthers, handsome in black tie, greeted them in the reception hall, accompanied by a radiant Sharon Carruthers, swathed in peach silk. Ambassadors, generals, and ministers filed through the entrance. The tempo of activity increased slowly, as did the noise level, and almost imperceptibly the reception began acquiring its rhythm. It all looked so effortless.

Once inside, the
three of them stayed clustered together, clutching their drinks. They were not altogether comfortable in the company of the other guests, most of whom they had never seen before and some of whom were on their list of suspects. Liz made a valiant if doomed attempt to mingle at one point, returning to her companions quite quickly. “What happened?” asked Hay.

“It went something like this,” she said. “I said hello. They said, ‘Hello, and what brings you to London?' I said I was investigating a murder, and then they suddenly saw all kinds of people they knew on the other side of the room.” She sighed. “I knew this wasn't likely to be my kind of crowd.”

“So I take it you won't be doing that again?”

“I won't. Guess who I saw over there, though. Natalie's father, Lukjovic.”

“What's he doing here?” Hay asked, partly to himself. “I thought he'd be back home in Montreal by now. We released the body a couple of days ago.”

“I know. He muttered something about having some unfinished business here in London. He was in a hurry—seemed to be looking for somebody. I think he's already gone,” she said, scanning the room.

Sharon Carruthers suddenly shimmered up. “Oh, I'm
so
very glad you could come,” she crooned. “Are you enjoying yourselves?” Of course they were, they said, very much. “And, my dear, don't you look
lovely
,” she continued, looking at Liz. “And aren't you
tiny
? I didn't know Mounties came that small,” she said with a tinselly laugh.

Hay was certain he felt Liz become totally rigid by his side. But he wasn't about to look at her.

Sharon Carruthers continued, “I see we have a couple of
smokers
here. You should be careful of that, my dear. Bad for the
wrinkles
you know.” She patted her own dewy cheek. And then she was gone.

Liz said nothing, even though she felt she was about to explode. Hay clamped his hand down on her right shoulder, holding her in place. “Now, Forsyth,” he said, “I've already got two homicides on my plate. I don't need a third.”

She whirled to face him, but he didn't relinquish his grasp. She said seriously, “Do you remember, Hay, that I once told you I wished Sharon Carruthers was the murderer?”

“Yes. Yes, I do,” he said.

“Well, I wish to retract my previous statement. Now I wish she'd been the bloody victim.”

Hay started to laugh. He'd found himself laughing more than usual lately, despite the circumstances. “Don't let her bother you. She's only envious, you know.”

“Envious?”

“Of course. She can't stand being outshone at her own party.”

Liz flashed him a grateful smile. Hay could be downright charming when he wanted to be. She excused herself and was rather more composed when she returned from the ladies' room, where she had indulged in unspeakable thoughts about Morticia Carruthers. Colonel Lahaie had now joined Hay and Wilkins and was looking manly and graceful in his dress uniform complete with gold braid.

“There she is,” said the colonel, “and looking wonderful.”

“The colonel here has just passed on some rather interesting information,” said Hay.

Liz looked quizzically at Lahaie.

“Yes,” he said. “I was just chatting with my French counterpart over there.” He nodded in the direction of a colonel in the French army. “We're members of the same squash club. So is your friend Dr. Julian Cox, by the way. Anyway, my colleague mentioned in passing that he played squash with Cox last Saturday. Of course, he didn't think much about it—why would he?—but then I'm following the investigation closely. When I pushed him a bit, he said it was late in the afternoon. Between four and six. If I'm not mistaken, that was about the time of the Wilmot murder, was it not?”

Liz nodded slowly.

“I thought you would want to know,” said Lahaie.

“It looks like the little bugger had an alibi alright,” said Hay, shaking his head quickly. “He just didn't want us to know.”

“So that we would keep him in the frame,” said Liz.

“And he'd get the publicity,” added Wilkins.

This was discouraging. While Cox had not been the best of suspects, he was the best they had. They stood awhile, digesting the information and conversing, then Lahaie asked Liz if she had tried any of his Moose Milk. Liz shook her head, and Hay and Wilkins watched as the colonel piloted her toward the tub of potent alcohol.

“Noxious beverage, Wilkins,” Hay remarked, watching Lahaie and Forsyth disappear into the crowd. “Ever try it?”

“No, sir.”

“Don't bother. But you should try one of these,” he said, taking a slice of tortière from a passing tray. “The meat pies are good.”

Sergeant Roy Carpenter
was fuming. He had missed the earlier train from Manchester, and there was no car to meet him at the station. Now he was in a taxi and already very late for the reception. He still had to get changed. It had been such a great little holiday—what a way to spoil it. He leaned back in the taxi and tried to relax, but he found it difficult.

Mary Kellick was
slumped over her kitchen table. Her pale right cheek, laced with sodden mascara, lay against the cheerful blue and white checks of her tablecloth. A gold hoop earring was digging into the side of her face, but she didn't notice. Mary Kellick would very soon be dead.

“Did you enjoy
your Moose Milk, Forsyth?” asked Hay.

“It's pretty powerful, that's for sure,” she said. “If I start dancing on tables just take me home.” She gazed about the glittering room with its glittering guests, then asked no one in particular, “Where's Kellick, I wonder? Shouldn't she be here?”

A High Commission security guard tapped her lightly on the shoulder. “Inspector, it's a Sergeant Gilles Ouellette from Ottawa. He's on the secure line. You can take it in the High Commissioner's study if you like, ma'am.”

“Oh, right. I can't believe I almost forgot. Must be the Moose Milk. You guys coming with me?” she asked, turning back to Hay and Wilkins.

They didn't need asking twice: some police work was genuinely welcome compared to the discomfort they felt with their current company. The security guard led the way. Once inside the study, he pointed to the apparatus on the High Commissioner's desk and handed Liz the key. She had a clear line to Ouellette almost immediately.

Hay and Wilkins sat on a couch in the study for what seemed an exceptional length of time. “Good thing we brought our drinks,” muttered Wilkins.

Liz was listening very intently and scribbling a great many notes on a pad she had found on the desk. Finally she said, “You don't mess about, do you, Ouellette? I'm not sure what all this means, but it's great work. When do we expect you back? Tomorrow? Good. See you then. Thanks again.”

Sergeant Roy Carpenter
had just changed into his dress uniform. Damn—he would be very late for this reception. He hoped he could sneak in without Sharon Carruthers noticing.

The deafening crash puzzled him for a second, immobilized him. Then he heard heavy footfalls in the hallway and realized what was happening. He really should have fixed that lock. They were on top of him in a moment—the younger, stronger one with a sharp, cold blade to his throat. The young man pulled Carpenter to his feet, pushed him down into a chair, and took up a position behind him. The knife pressed into Carpenter's flesh all the while. The older man pulled up a chair across from Carpenter. He fixed Carpenter with a watery gaze and said, “So. Now you tell me why you want kill my Natalia.”

Liz turned to
her companions. “Okay, here goes.” She consulted her notes, realizing they were largely illegible. “First, Lahaie was right. There was nothing to that hospital business. A couple of minor events blown way out of proportion.”

“Oh, good,” said Hay.

“Second, as we know, there have been persistent rumors of an international drug-trafficking operation out of Bosnia. It goes something like this. The drugs originate in Central Asia and are routed through Russia to Bosnia—an easy run due to the instability and lawlessness—and on to the West.”

“Go on,” said Hay.

“Ouellette stumbled across some other rumors, not widely circulated. There may even have been involvement by some members of the International Police Task Force in the drug operation.”

“But wasn't Sergeant—” began Wilkins.

“Exactly,” said Liz. “The name of one Sergeant Roy Carpenter, currently of the High Commission in London, came up more than once in those files. Nothing ever stuck; there was never any proof. But the rumors persisted. And the fact remains that he was attached to the International Police Task Force in Bosnia during the time the rumors of trafficking were at their height.”

“Good God,” Wilkins gasped. “What the hell have we got ourselves into here?”

“There's more, isn't there, Forsyth?” asked Hay intently.

Liz drew a breath. “Yes. It seems that most of the drug money from these operations has ended up in the hands of a small group of Serbian nationalists residing in the West. They turn the cash right around to finance the war effort.” She paused. “And the name that pops up most frequently in that connection is . . .”

“Don't tell me,” groaned Hay. “Miroslav Lukjovic, of Montreal, Canada.”

Liz nodded and flopped back in the leather desk chair, dazed.

Hay was thinking hard now. “Where's Carpenter?” he snapped suddenly.

“I don't know. I haven't seen him tonight. I had heard he was going away for a day or two.”

“But he couldn't miss this, could he?” said Wilkins. “Shouldn't he be here?”

“I hope I'm wrong about this,” said Hay, jumping to his feet. “But I think we had better find Carpenter fast, or that lad could be in a lot of trouble.”

Hay, Forsyth, and Wilkins raced out of the Residence so quickly that they scarcely had time to wish their hosts a Happy Christmas. They hardly noticed that the noise level of the reception had increased markedly, as had the sound of laughter, as the Moose Milk did its useful work. Sharon Carruthers wished the trio a Merry Christmas, her Peach Passion lips twitching slightly as they left.

“Look, Miroslav,” said
Roy Carpenter in a strangled voice, “I don't know what you're talking about. It was those ecology nuts. Ask the police, they'll tell you.”

Lukjovic's pale old eyes stared at the young sergeant. “No. Perhaps I tell you, Carpenter. I tell you how this happen. Natalia, she find out something maybe, like how you work in Bosnia helping drugs transit to West. Perhaps she learn this from people back home, in Pale, that something smell bad in International Police Force. That Canadian, this Carpenter smell bad.” The old man nodded. “Yes, she find out something when she start make contact with people. She find out. So you kill her.”

Carpenter felt his neck would snap from being forced backward by the strong man standing behind him. But with the knife blade firmly against his throat, the alternative was too horrible to contemplate. “It was those environmentalists, I tell you. She was being threatened by those wackos. I saw the notes.”

“Yes, yes. You clever, Carpenter. This give you good idea, yes? You security man. You
RCMP
. You know about these threats. So you make seal joke, yes? You make these threats from
wackos
”—he rolled this new word around in his mouth—“come true. And same for other man, fur seller, I think. You kill him to make police believe this also ecology killing.”

“You've got this all wrong, Miroslav.”