The Dead of Winter

by Lisa Appignanesi

  I follow Gagnon out the door.

  Half-way down the wooded slope that leads to the river, angry voices reverberate from the trees. Moments later, we come upon the group of men. Contini is gesticulating wildly, as if he would like to land a punch on Miron’s face. The young constable cowers, but stands his ground.

  ‘I don’t believe this. I don’t fucking believe it. You’re chasing after Henderson. You see a gun in his hand. He shoots. Shoots at the ground, mind. You shout. He turns around and you let him have it. But the poor bastard is handcuffed. What did you think he was going to do? Shoot through himself to get at you. And then you aim at his chest. Not his leg, not his arm. His fucking chest. Where d’you do your target practice, Miron? With the SS? In our force, we try to keep our suspects alive.’

  ‘I…’

  ‘You nothing. Look at this. Look, damn you!’ Contini waves a tiny pistol in the air. His gloved hands are huge beside it. ‘He’d have to get you point blank to do any harm. What did you think it was? A shot gun? A semi-automatic?’

  ‘Take it easy, Contini.’ Gagnon steps into the circle. ‘He was just scared.’

  As the others move back, I see the body stretched on the ground. Will Henderson looks as if he has fallen into a deep sleep. His head is cradled on his extended arms. One leg is bent at the knee, curled towards the other. Only the dark red stain on the snow shatters the illusion.

  ‘The ambulance should be here in fifteen minutes,’ Serge Monet announces as he tucks a phone into his pocket.

  ‘Okay,’ Contini catches my eye for a moment, then rushes on like a general organizing a small army. ‘Gagnon, you and your men get back to the house and stay there until the doctor’s checked the girl over and they’re ready to go. I want them escorted back to Montréal. Meanwhile, give the boy a hand in cleaning the place up. Make sure the windows are boarded. I don’t want any more of your brave citizens launching bricks. Is that clear?’ He doesn’t give him a chance to answer.

  ‘Monet, you stay with Henderson here, then go along to the hospital. Keep your ear to his lips.’

  ‘I’d like to go along.’ Young Miron’s voice sounds oddly high-pitched.

  ‘You?’ Contini glares at him. ‘You’ve had quite enough to do with Henderson for one day. What I want to know is where he got hold of a gun. Got any ideas about that, Miron?’ He gives him a rough poke on the shoulder.

  Miron steps back.

  ‘I don’t think…’ Gagnon intervenes.

  ‘I don’t care what you think for the moment, Gagnon. I want you to ring Dr. Rosenberg and explain things to him in your best goddamm manner. Apologize for the good people of Ste-Anne. If I have a report of even a whiff of impoliteness, I’m going to set up an inquiry, not only into your pink-cheeked Miron, here, but you as well. Is that understood?

  This time the Chief nods.

  ‘Now get going. And when the ambulance arrives, direct them down here. Fast.’

  I fall into line with Gagnon. He is scowling. ‘I’m going to have to tell that Contini where to get off,’ he mutters.

  We walk silently back to the house. Gagnon waves his men indoors and gazes out at where not so very long ago, the jeering crowd stood massed. Now everything is quiet. The only sign of disturbance is the trodden snow, as lumpy and uneven against the surrounding smoothness as if a herd of elephants had been airlifted into the precincts.

  ‘Well, he did commit murder,’ Gagnon mumbles beneath his breath as if he has been carrying on an internal argument. ‘What do you think, Pierre?’

  I hesitate and suddenly find myself saying, ‘You might want to check the woods around here for any knife-scarred trees. With hiding holes.’

  ‘What!’

  ‘Drug caches, I imagine. Nothing huge. But you never know.’

  ‘Have you told Contini?’ His thin face has an avid gleam.

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘O-kay. O-kay!’ He pats me emphatically on the back. His lips crease into a wide smile.

  I am my father’s son again.

  ‘Hey, Gagnon, you’ve got things to do. Rousseau and I are out of here.’ Contini has come up behind us as stealthily as a mountain cat.

  ‘Me?’ I echo in bewilderment.

  ‘You heard me.’ He urges me down the drive, holds open the door for me.

  ‘Any place we can get some lunch in this godforsaken dump?’ He blows his boxer’s nose into a monogrammed handkerchief and swerves the car back onto the road without waiting for an answer. Beneath the broad brim of his hat, his face is set in a scowl.

  ‘There’s a brasserie a couple of kilometres away that’s just reopened under new management. I haven’t tried it yet. But I can direct you.’

  ‘If the food stinks, Rousseau, I’ll arrest you.’ He guffaws loudly and accelerates, drives far too fast for comfort, only slows as the ambulance races past us.’

  ‘You in this drug racket, too, Monsieur le Notaire?’ he asks after its siren has receded into silence. ‘Collecting protection money from Miron and your beloved Chief?’

  I whip round to gauge his profile. ‘You’re joking. I don’t know what you’re on about.’

  ‘I heard you whispering. And Gagnon’s an old family friend of yours. He already told me that much.’

  ‘Hardly makes him my buddy. Anyhow, I know nothing about a racket. That stuff about the hiding holes. It’s just a guess.’

  ‘Hmm.’ He throws me a sideways glance and takes a curve at breakneck speed. ‘Well, there’s something amiss. I sniffed it from the start. The laziness. The shoddy way they searched Madeleine Blais’ apartment. What are they hiding? Who are they protecting?’

  ‘I suspect it’s just a mixture of incompetence and laziness,’ I mumble.

  ‘You call shooting down a man in cold blood laziness? Non, monsieur. You shoot down a man because you’re afraid he’ll talk. Corrupt bastards!’

  ‘I could have sworn Gagnon didn’t know Will Henderson from Adam. Yesterday. At the fire.’

  ‘Was Miron there?’

  I shake my head.

  ‘Well you can bet your sweet Madeleine’s neck that Miron did know him. Knew him all too well. Gagnon may just be turning a blind eye. Two blind eyes in return for a kick-back.’

  ‘You’re in a foul mood, Contini.’

  ‘Ya? Well cheer me up then. Give me some answers.’

  I shrug. ‘I think I know where Henderson might have gotten the pistol.’ I tell him about the Russian doll.

  ‘So why didn’t you stop Henderson before it was too late? Our prime suspect and you let him run? Come on Rousseau, tell me another one.’

  ‘I was a bit slow,’ I say lamely. ‘And maybe Miron really was just scared.’

  ‘No. There’s a scam of some kind on. I know my cops. I can smell it. Okay, maybe it’s just small time stuff. A little payola. They’re too dumb for the big time.’ He casts me another of his searing looks.

  I pretend not to notice. We pass Oscar’s house. Chantale and Christophe are rolling a vast ball through the snow. I wave to them. They are too intent on their snowman to see me.

  ‘Ya, I’d rather be playing in the snow, too. Welcome in the new year with the kids.’ Contini puffs furiously at his cigarette. ‘And here I am. I start off with a simple famous person suspicious suicide and what do I get? Arson, drugs, murder, a mini-riot, a police force that can’t even keep its eyes on a hand-cuffed man! A shot suspect. Dr. Rosenberg’s not no one, either. He runs the only Jewish lobby that keeps up a dialogue with the separatists. You of all people should know that.’

  ‘I didn’t.’

  ‘Buried yourself away in this dump. What for?’

  ‘It’s my home.’

  ‘Sure, sure. And my home’s Italy.’

  He is quiet while we manouever a slippery stretch of road.

  ‘I dream of it, you know,’ he says in a sudden soft tone, ‘in these grey, dirty, winter days. Warm sunlit skies, olive groves, terraces, vines twining over a bower. Even though I’ve never been. Next year.’


  ‘You turn left here.’

  ‘How did you know about Mme Tremblay’s suicide attempt?’

  ‘I didn’t. I had a hunch. A feeling. After you had that go at convincing her Madeleine had committed suicide, she was very distressed.’

  ‘Sorry about that.’

  ‘And if I were in her shoes…’

  He nods. ‘Lavigne went round to check on her last night. Mme Tremblay was okay, if a bit fuddled. We’ll need her to identify Madeleine’s supposed hitch-hiker and killer, though. Alive or dead.’

  Despite the heat of the car, a shudder runs through me.

  ‘That’s it. Over there.’ I point to the building that used to house the Point Ste-Anne where the boy I didn’t know as Madeleine and I sat outside and thrilled to a forbidden band. It has been de-sanctified and renamed Le Lion d’Or. Its roof is bright with new slates. A colonnaded porch decks the entrance.

  ‘Looks okay.’ Contini’s voice is more grudging than his words.

  We are shown to a window table in a large formal dining room, its dark blue walls emblazoned with gold lions. The table cloths are pale yellow and stiff. Single yellow carnations sit in pencil-thin glass vases. The clients are elegantly dressed, soft-spoken.

  ‘You paying?’ Contini smirks. ‘Out of your ill-gotten gains.’

  ‘Out of my pocket. Sure. Why not.’

  He sprawls into the chair opposite me, unfolds his starched napkin and studies the menu with his usual intentness.

  For a moment I can’t focus. Through the window I can see the hilly sprawl of back garden where Madeleine and I huddled against each other for warmth. Her smooth face twinkles at me. Her mouth moves to say something I can’t hear. I clutch the arm of my chair to concentrate better, but she has already run up the hill, vanished into snow.

  ‘The bouillabesse sounds promising. If we both go for it. With all the trimmings. Otherwise I’ll settle for steak and salad.’

  ‘Bouillabesse is fine.’

  Contini orders from the pert-faced waiter who seems disappointed not to be allowed to perform the menu. Until the half-bottle of wine he has allowed us arrives, he is silent. But like a doctor probing a difficult patient, his scrutiny is intense. I feel as if my skin might burst into a rash simply to satisfy his need for symptoms.

  ‘Okay. Let’s try some scenarios,’ he says after his first studied sip of wine. ‘Madeleine Blais wants to have a good time over Christmas. Will Henderson comes down specially to Ste-Anne to supply it. It’s one of his haunts. They know each other. But this time Madeleine won’t pay the extra-high for Christmas price he asks. So in a psychotic moment, induced by whatever cocktail he’s on, he strings her up. Then the sight of the barn offends him, so he burns it down.’

  He waits for my reaction.

  When it doesn’t come, he says, ‘No, it’s shit. I agree.’

  He crumbles a steaming roll and chews on it, bit by bit. ‘Let’s try it differently, but starting from the same point. Will is Madeleine’s supplier. He’s also her lover. After midnight mass, they fuck in Madeleine’s room. Then they decide on a little more fun, the kind that’s too dangerous with grannie around. Maybe he likes things wierd. Maybe both of them do…’

  His eyes never leave my face as he speaks. I struggle for impassivity.

  ‘So they find themselves in the barn and the wierdness gets out of hand. The sadism goes a little too far. Loving becomes abuse becomes death. Well-known phenomenon. But this time, Madeleine Blais is left hanging. And he torches the barn to obliterate the memory. Or some evidence we’ve failed to spot.’

  My hands are so taut on the arms of my chair, that they have gone numb. ‘Did he say he knew her?’

  ‘He said zilch. Niente, nada, nothing. What d’you expect? A full confession? Some member of your lily-white police force may already have offered him some kind of deal. Then when I came along, Henderson woke up to the seriousness of it all, got scared and made a run for it. Or maybe he was too blotto to know anything. Whichever way, we’ll never prove the police involvement. Even if by some miracle, Henderson lives to talk, all we’ve got on the surface is an over ardent policeman trying to stop Madeleine Blais’ killer.’

  The waiter deposits a vast silver tureen on the serving table and carefully ladles chunks of fish and broth into our plates, tops them with croutons and spoonfuls of aioli.

  ‘Not bad at all. Pretty good, in fact.’ Contini smiles his gourmet smile. ‘The day hasn’t been in vain. But back to Madeleine Blais. What d’you make of my second scenario?’’

  I shrug.

  ‘Feeling squeamish, eh?’ He prods a piece of fish with his fork and chews with relish. ‘Believe me. It happens. With all kinds of nice people.’

  ‘So you’ve got your murderer.’

  His eyes are so intent on my face that I avert mine. Pale yellow flesh dots my plate.

  ‘Relieved, are you? Funny how everyone in Ste-Anne wants me to declare the case closed.’ His chuckle is tinged with malice. ‘May not even need a trial now.’

  ‘Not me. I don’t believe Henderson and Madeleine…’ my voice trails off.

  ‘So maybe you’re not telling me something I should know?’

  He beams, savouring the catch 22 he has trapped me in.

  ‘We found her car, by the way.’

  ‘Madeleine’s car?’

  ‘Ya.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘At the airport. Mirabelle. In the underground parking lot.’ He gives me a swift appraising look. ‘I agree. There are missing links. I have no idea why it was there. The ticket was inside it. It was parked on Christmas Day morning. Around nine-thirty.’

  ‘Someone must have been catchting a flight. Have you tried the identikit face on airport staff?’

  ‘You teaching me my job, Rousseau?’

  I shake my head.

  ‘And where were you at nine-thirty on Christmas day?’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Yes, you. There’s no one else at this table.’

  I close my eyes for a moment. My head is swimming. When I open them Contini is smiling. It isn’t a particularly pleasant smile.

  ‘I was at home. Making coffee probably.’

  ‘Anyone with you?’

  ‘The cat.’

  ‘Who can’t provide corroboration.’ He ladles more soup into his plate, helps himself to aioli. ‘How come you never told me you were married to Madeleine Blais, Rousseau?’ The question comes with an interrogator’s swiftness. I have a sudden sense that I am about to be put on the wrack and stretched slowly, each turn of the creaking wheel a malicious delight to my inquisitor.

  ‘You never asked. And it was a long time ago.’

  ‘But you never divorced?’

  ‘The need didn’t arise.’

  ‘The need didn’t arise,’ he echoes, as if it were the punch line of a joke. ‘You know that most homicides take place inside the family.’

  ‘We were hardly a family.’

  ‘Well you wouldn’t necessarily recognize all these families as families either.’ He laughs. ‘You’re not eating.’

  ‘I had a big breakfast.’

  ‘Oh? Someone cooking for you.’

  ‘I stayed at friends.’

  ‘Yes. I noticed you’d been rather scarce these last few nights. Home not a welcoming place anymore?’

  ‘What are you trying to say, Contini?’

  ‘Nothing. Nothing.’ He pats his stomach and folds his napkin. ‘We’ve been doing some interviews. We met a few of Madeleine Blais’ friends. Not that the timing is brilliant. So many people are away. But we managed a few. Your friends, too.’

  ‘Oh? Have they been maligning me?’

  ‘No, no. Quite the contrary.

  ‘That’s a relief.’

  ‘One of them told me you were completely obsessed with Madeleine Blais.’

  ‘A man or a woman?’

  ‘Does it matter?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘So you aren’t, weren’t obsessed with her
?’

  I shrug, though I can feel myself blanching. ‘She’s a fascinating woman. What are you getting at Contini?’

  ‘Oh, just fishing. Wondering where you were on the night of her death.’

  ‘At home. In bed.’

  ‘Alone?’ he repeats.

  ‘If I’m so obsessed with her, I’d hardly be with anyone else.’

  Contini laughs.

  I wave over the waiter. ‘Do you want some dessert?’

  ‘Maybe just a little something. A tart or a parfait.’ His finger moves down the desert menu. ‘Yes, a lemon parfait. And a double espresso. Nothing for you?’

  I order a coffee and when the waiter has cleared our dishes, Contini bends towards me, his voice suddenly low. ‘You know, Madeleine thought she was being followed. Stalked.’

  I trace the pattern embossed in the tablecloth with my fork. ‘Did you learn that from her journals?’ My voice betrays more interest and more discomfort than I like and I sit up straight to meet his eyes.

  He avoids my question. ‘A friend of hers at the theatre mentioned it. Madeleine was scared. Did she ever say anything about it to you?’

  My gaze reverts to the hidden pattern in the tablecloth. ‘She mentioned it once I think. I didn’t pay much attention. Didn’t take it very seriously. Actresses are always being followed. Fans, photographers, the curious…’

  ‘This was different apparently.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘She bought a gun.’

  ‘Yes. Of course.’

  I wait breathlessly but he doesn’t follow through with more detail. Instead he takes a spoonful of parfait and tastes it with dainty suspicion.

  ‘Still no will, though. If one doesn’t turn up, as Madeleine Blais’ husband, you stand to inherit. Quite a tidy estate, I would imagine.’

  The thought has never occurred to me. I avoid Contini’s gaze.

  ‘I’ve got a line to Paris. And to Hollywood. Maybe something will turn up there. Had any more ideas about it?’

  ‘No. Afraid not. Maybe she didn’t make a will. Madeleine didn’t think of dying a lot.’ I catch myself in the inanity of the comment. So does Contini.

  ‘So you’ve finally ruled out suicide, too. You were so convinced to start with.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I say with too much nervousness. ‘It’s just that after the fire and Henderson and all this business…’