The Price of Love and Other Stories (15 page)

The Silver Birch explosion had not only destroyed Lloyd’s house and wife, it had also destroyed his car, a silver Toyota SUV, and he wasn’t going to bother replacing it until he moved to Vancouver, where he’d probably buy a nice little red sports car. He still popped into the studios occasionally, mostly to see how things were going, and luckily, his temporary accommodation was close to the Victoria Park subway station. He soon found he didn’t mind taking the TTC to work and back. In fact, he rather enjoyed it. They played classical music at the station to keep away the hooligans. If he got a seat on the train, he would read a book, and if he didn’t, he would drift off into thoughts of his sweet Anne-Marie.

And so life went on, waiting, waiting, for the time when he could decently, and without arousing suspicion, make his move. The policeman didn’t return, obviously realizing he had absolutely no chance of making a case against Lloyd without a confession, which he knew he wouldn’t get. It was late November now, arguably one of the grimmest months in Toronto, but at least the snow hadn’t come yet, just one dreary, cold, grey day after another.

One such day, Lloyd stood on the crowded eastbound platform at the St. George subway station, wondering if he dared make his move as early as next week. At least, he thought, he could “go away for a while,” maybe even until after Christmas. Surely that would be acceptable by now? People would understand that he couldn’t bear to spend his first Christmas without Laura in Toronto.

He had just decided that he would do it when he saw the train come tearing into the station. In his excitement at the thought of seeing Anne-Marie again so soon, a sort of unconscious sense of urgency had carried him a little closer to the edge of the platform
than he should have been, and the crowds jostled behind him. He felt something hard jab into the small of his back, and the next thing he knew, his legs buckled and he pitched forward. He couldn’t stop himself. He toppled in front of the oncoming train before the driver could do a thing. His last thought was of Anne-Marie waving goodbye to him at Vancouver International Airport, then the subway train smashed into him and its wheels shredded him to pieces.

Someone in the crowd screamed and people started running back towards the exits. The frail-looking old man with the walking stick who had been standing directly behind Lloyd turned to walk away calmly through the chaos, but before he could get very far, two scruffy-looking young men emerged from the throng and took him by each arm. “No you don’t,” one of them said. “This way.” And they led him up to the street.

Detective Bobby Aiken played with the worry beads one of his colleagues had brought him back from a trip to Istanbul. Not that he was worried about anything. It was just a habit, and he found it very calming. It had, in fact, been a very good day.

Not because of Lloyd Francis. Aiken didn’t really care one way or another about Francis’s death. In his eyes, Francis had been a coldblooded murderer and he had got no less than he deserved. No, the thing that pleased Aiken was that the undercover detectives he had detailed to keep an eye on Francis had picked up Mickey the Croaker disguised as an old man at the St. George subway station, having seen him push Francis with the sharp end of his walking stick.

Organized Crime had been after Mickey for many years now, but had never managed to get anything on him. They knew that he usually worked for one of the big crime families in Montreal, and the way things were looking, he was just about ready to cut a deal: amnesty and the witness relocation plan for everything he knew about the Montreal operation, from the hits he had made to where
the bodies were buried. Organized Crime were creaming their jeans over their good luck. It would mean a promotion for Bobby Aiken.

The only thing that puzzled Aiken was why. What had Lloyd Francis done to upset the Mob? There was something missing, and it irked him that he might never uncover it now that the main players were dead. Mickey the Croaker knew nothing, of course; he had simply been obeying orders, and killing Lloyd Francis meant nothing more to him than swatting a fly. Francis’s murder was more than likely connected with the post-production company, Aiken decided. It was well known that the Mob had its fingers in the movie business, often for the purpose of money laundering. A bit of digging around might uncover something more specific, but Aiken didn’t have the time. Besides, what did it matter now? Even if he didn’t understand how all the pieces fit together, things had worked out the right way. Lanagan and Francis were dead, and Mickey the Croaker was about to sing. It was a shame about the wife, Laura. She had been a good-looking woman, from what Aiken had been able to tell from the family photographs, and it was a pity she had died so young. But those were the breaks. If she hadn’t been playing the beast with two backs with Lanagan in her own bed, for Christ’s sake, she might still be alive today.

It was definitely a good day, Aiken decided, pushing the papers aside. Even the weather had improved. He looked out of the window. Indian summer had come to Toronto in November. The sun glinted on the apartment windows at College and Yonge, and the office workers were out on the streets, men without jackets and women in sleeveless summer dresses. A streetcar rumbled by, heading for Main station.
Main.
Out near the Beaches. The boardwalk and the Queen Street cafés would be crowded, and the dog walkers would be out in force. Aiken thought maybe he’d take Jasper out there for a run later. You never knew whom you might meet when you were walking your dog on the beach.

A
three-day holiday.
DCI Alan Banks sat down at the breakfast table and made some notes on a lined pad. If he was doomed to spend Christmas alone this year, he was going to do it in style. For Christmas Eve, Alastair Sim’s
Scrooge
, the black-and-white version, of course. For Christmas Day,
Love Actually
. Mostly it was a load of crap, no doubt about that, but it was worth the silliness for Bill Nighy’s Billy Mack, and Keira Knightley was always worth watching. For Boxing Day,
David Copperfield
, the one with the Harry Potter actor in it, because it had helped him through a nasty hangover one Boxing Day a few years ago, and thus are traditions born.

Music was more problematic. Bach’s
Christmas Oratorio
and Handel’s
Messiah
, naturally. Both were on his iPod and could be played through his main sound system. But some years ago, he had made a Christmas compilation tape of all his favourite songs, from Bing’s “White Christmas” to Elvis’s “Santa Claus is Back in Town” and “Blue Christmas,” The Pretenders’ “2000 Miles” and Roland Kirk’s “We Free Kings.” Unfortunately, that had gone up in flames along with the rest of his music collection. Which meant a quick trip to HMV in Eastvale that afternoon to pick up a few seasonal CDs so he could make a playlist. He had to go to Marks and Spencer anyway,
for his turkey dinner, so he might as well drop in at HMV while he was in the Swainsdale Centre. As for wine, he still had a more than decent selection from his brother’s cellar – including some fine Amarone, Chianti Classico, clarets, and burgundies – which would certainly get him through the next three days without any pain. Luckily, he had bought and given out all his Christmas presents earlier – what few there were: money for Tracy, a Fairport Convention box set for Brian, chocolates and magazine subscriptions for his parents, and a silver and jet bracelet for Annie Cabbot.

Banks put his writing pad aside and reached for his coffee mug. Beside it sat a pristine copy of Kate Atkinson’s
Behind the Scenes at the Museum
, which he fully intended to read over the holidays. There should be plenty of peace and quiet. Brian was with his band in Europe and wouldn’t be able to get up to Gratly until late on Boxing Day. Tracy was spending Christmas with her mother Sandra, stepdad Sean, and baby Sinead, and Annie was heading home to the artists’ colony in St. Ives, where they would all, no doubt, be having a good weep over
The Junky’s Christmas
, which, Annie had told him, was a Christmas staple among her father’s crowd. He had seen it once himself, and he had to admit that it wasn’t bad, but it hadn’t become a tradition with him.

All in all, then, this Christmas was beginning to feel like something to be got through with liberal doses of wine and music. Even the weather was refusing to co-operate. The white Christmas that everyone had been hoping for since a tentative sprinkle of snow in late November had not materialized, though the optimists at the meteorological centre were keeping their options open. At the moment, though, it was uniformly grey and wet in Yorkshire. The only good thing that could be said for it was that it wasn’t cold. Far from it. Down south, people were sitting outside at Soho cafés and playing golf in the suburbs. Banks wondered if he should have gone away, taken a holiday. Paris. Rome. Madrid. A stranger in a strange city.
Even London would have been better than this. Maybe he could still catch a last-minute flight.

But he knew he wasn’t going anywhere. He sipped some strong coffee and told himself not to be so maudlin. Christmas was a notoriously dangerous time of year. It was when people got depressed and gave in to their deepest fears, when all their failures, regrets and disappointments came back to haunt them. Was he going to let himself give in to that, become a statistic?

He decided to go into town now and get his last-minute shopping over with before it got really busy. Just before he left, though, his phone rang. Banks picked up the receiver.

“Sir? It’s DC Jackman.”

“Yes, Winsome. What’s the problem?”

“I’m really sorry to disturb you at home, sir, but we’ve got a bit of a problem.”

“What is it?” Banks asked. Despite having to spend Christmas alone, he had been looking forward to a few days away from the Western Area Headquarters, if only to relax and unwind after a particularly difficult year. But perhaps that wasn’t to be.

“Missing person, sir.”

“Can’t someone else handle it?”

“It needs someone senior, sir, and DI Cabbot’s already on her way to Cornwall.”

“Who’s missing?”

“A woman by the name of Brenda Mercer. Forty-two years old.”

“How long?”

“Overnight.”

“Any reason to think there’s been foul play?”

“Not really.”

“Who reported her missing?”

“The husband.”

“Why did he leave it until this morning?”

“He didn’t. He reported it at six p.m. yesterday evening. We’ve been looking into it. But you know how it is with missing persons, sir, unless it’s a kid. It was very early days. Usually they turn up, or you find a simple explanation quickly enough.”

“But not in this case?”

“No, sir. Not a sign. The husband’s getting frantic. Difficult. Demanding to see someone higher up. And he’s got the daughter and her husband in tow now – they’re not making life any easier. I’ve only just managed to get rid of them by promising I’d get someone in authority to come and talk to them.”

“All right,” Banks said with a sigh. “Hang on. I’ll be right in.”

Major Crimes and CID personnel were thin on the ground at Western Area Headquarters that Christmas Eve, and DC Winsome Jackman was one who had drawn the short straw. She didn’t mind, though. She couldn’t afford to visit her parents in Jamaica, and she had politely passed up a Christmas dinner invitation from a fellow member of the potholing club, who had been pursuing her for some time now, so she had no real plans for the holidays. She hadn’t expected it to be particularly busy in Major Crimes. Most Christmas incidents were domestic and, as such, were dealt with by the officers on patrol. Even criminals, it seemed, took a bit of time off for turkey and Christmas pud. But a missing person case could turn nasty very quickly, especially if it was a woman.

While she was waiting for Banks, Winsome went through the paperwork again. There wasn’t much other than the husband’s report and statement, but that gave her the basics.

When David Mercer got home from work on 23 December at around six p.m., he was surprised to find his wife not home. Sur prised because she was always home and always had his dinner waiting for him. He worked in the administration offices of the Swainsdale Shopping Centre, and his hours were regular. A neighbour had seen
Mrs. Mercer walking down the street where she lived on the Leaview Estate at about a quarter past four that afternoon. She was alone and was wearing a beige overcoat and carrying a scuffed brown leather bag, the kind with a shoulder strap. She was heading in the direction of the main road, and the neighbour assumed she was going to catch a bus. She knew that Mrs. Mercer didn’t drive. She said hello, but said that Mrs. Mercer hadn’t seemed to hear her, had seemed a bit “lost in her own world.”

Police had questioned the bus drivers on the route, but none of them recalled seeing anyone matching the description. Uniformed officers also questioned taxi drivers, and got the same response. All Mrs. Mercer’s relatives had been contacted, and none had any idea where she was. Winsome was beginning to think it was possible, then, that someone had picked Mrs. Mercer up on the main road, possibly by arrangement, and that she didn’t want to be found. The alternative, that she had been somehow abducted, didn’t bear thinking about, at least not until all other possible avenues had been exhausted.

Winsome had not been especially impressed by David Mercer. He was the sort of pushy, aggressive alpha white male she had seen far too much of over the past few years, puffed up with self-importance, acting as if everyone else were a mere lackey to meet his demands, especially if she happened to be black and female. But she tried not to let personal impressions interfere with her reasoning. Even so, there was something about Mercer’s tone, something that didn’t quite ring true. She made a note to mention it to Banks.

The house was a modern Georgian-style semi with a bay window, stone cladding, and a neatly kept garden, and when Banks rang the doorbell, Winsome beside him, David Mercer opened it so quickly that he might have been standing right behind it. He led Banks and Winsome into a cluttered but clean front room, where a young woman sat on the sofa wringing her hands and a whippet-thin man
in an expensive, out-of-date suit paced the floor. A tall Christmas tree stood in one corner, covered with ornaments and lights. On the floor were a number of brightly wrapped presents and one ornament, a tiny pair of ice skates, which seemed to have fallen off the tree. The radio was playing Christmas music faintly in the background.
Fa-la-la-la-lah.