The Corpse with the Silver Tongue

by Cathy Ace

  What I wasn’t quite prepared for was Tamsin’s interpretation of how it was best for a new widow to present herself for a police interview. Apparently, it involved a long black velvet dress, alarmingly high-heeled black leather boots, a black wrap edged with fur, a large black Kelly bag, and a pair of “Jackie O” sunglasses. It was eleven o’clock at night, for goodness sake!

  “I’m ready now; we should leave,” was all she said. Well, at least it wasn’t “I’m ready for my close-up, Mr. DeMille,” which it might just as well have been.

  Luckily, I was ready too. Tamsin gave her keys to Chuck so he could lock up when he and Beni left. She and I took the elevator to the ground floor, which was still abuzz with people coming and going from Madelaine’s apartment, and we made our way to the front door. Pierre Bertrand, the young policeman who’d translated for me at the police station that morning—my God, was it only twelve hours since I’d been there the last time—was waiting in the residents’ parking area of the Palais, smoking and looking a bit bored. He brightened at the sight of us descending the steps.

  “Ah, Professor Morgan, you are ready, good. I am to take you to Captain Moreau,” he called as we approached him.

  “Yes, young man,” replied Tamsin, “we’re ready. You can drive us now.” As we moved away from the lights of the building and toward the parked cars, I half expected her to fall flat on her face in those sunglasses and stiletto heels. She couldn’t have been able to see where she was going at all!

  Bertrand smiled, and even bowed a little as he opened the rear door of the police car for Tamsin. He rolled his eyes as I got in. I winked back and smiled. He was sweet, and it was nice to see a familiar and friendly face among all the others that were scurrying about looking worried and pinched.

  The drive to the police station was uneventful, with Tamsin’s face turned away from me the whole time. She didn’t speak at all. I wondered what thoughts might be rattling around in that head of hers. I reminded myself that she might be a cunning killer, pulling the wool over all our eyes. Then I reminded myself that I didn’t have time to be wondering what she was thinking, and that I’d better start working out what I was going to say to Moreau when I saw him.

  Bertrand’s driving was all that Beni’s wasn’t—in other words, smooth and calm and involving no swear words at all, in any language. As we wound down the now familiar road from Cimiez through Carabacel to the area behind the Promenade des Anglais, I tried to not worry about Bud and to focus on my more immediate problems. It wasn’t easy, because I was beginning to realize just how much alcohol I’d consumed that day and the effect it was having on me—a headache beginning behind my eyes. Tamsin’s overwhelming and sickly perfume wasn’t helping.

  “Could you crack a window open, please?” I asked Bertrand, and he obliged, with some relief it seemed. Tamsin glared at me as though I’d just asked him to spray us with hydrochloric acid.

  “Don’t do that,” she snapped at Bertrand, as though he were simply a chauffeur, “it’ll mess up my hair!”

  The policeman closed the window and shrugged, catching my rolling eyes in his rear view mirror, no doubt. Thankfully, I didn’t have to sit there gagging for much longer, as we soon drew up to what appeared to be the rear entrance of the police station. This part of the building was more modern than the elaborate front entrance that I’d used earlier, and the interior matched the exterior: no fancy moldings and high ceilings here. Here it was all business and just a bit grubby and knocked around its edges.

  Bertrand showed us to a waiting area, then disappeared. He returned before I had a chance to decide which of the dog-eared French magazines I would pretend to read. He announced that Captain Moreau would like to see Mme. Townsend. Tamsin shot me a look of superior satisfaction as she tottered away with Bertrand, and I felt like poking my tongue out at her receding figure. At least I was free of that dreadful perfume, though it hung in the air after she left, like a little waft of poisoned gas. I was waggling my arm about, trying to disperse it more quickly, when Bertrand reappeared and asked if he could sit next to me. Of course I said yes. I wondered why he wanted to sit—it didn’t seem like a normal thing for a junior police officer to do.

  “Captain Moreau has asked me to remind you that you are able to bring a lawyer with you to this meeting. We know you are a visitor, so I have the names of some people you might like to call. They are all lawyers of the correct experience, and they all speak English.”

  I’d forgotten about that.

  “Tamsin didn’t have a lawyer with her,” I observed.

  “Yes, Mme. Townsend has a lawyer. He was here before you arrived. Apparently, she called him before she left the Palais and told him to meet her here.”

  So the Widow Tamsin hadn’t just been dolling herself up—she’d been arranging legal representation as well. Maybe she had a bit more sense than I’d given her credit for.

  “Do you think I need a lawyer?” I was beginning to get a bit alarmed. “Is it normal for this sort of circumstance?”

  Bertrand thought for a moment before he replied, “It is your right, at this time, to have a legal representative who can explain the law to you and can advise you what to say and what not to say. This is a serious case: two people are dead. Do you know anything about French law?”

  I wondered how different it could be from British or Canadian law, both of which I had a working knowledge of, especially when it came to murder. I had to admit to myself that I really didn’t know. So, what to do?

  “I understand what you are saying, Pierre,” I dared to use his first name in the hope that it would help us connect better—you never know when you’re going to need a policeman on your side. He smiled. “But I have a strong belief that any investigation that is about finding out the truth will achieve just that. I have no intention of telling anything but the truth, so I think I’ll be alright, thank you. I realize that I am in what might look like a difficult situation, being a stranger and all, but Captain Moreau strikes me as a very capable man, and I believe that he will be reasonable when he hears my story.”

  Bertrand chewed his lip as he thought for a moment, then said, “It is difficult for me to say more than this. It is your right to have someone who will speak for you, and you are a stranger, and two people have died since your arrival in their circle. The other people in that circle are well known in the city, they have a history here that is respectable and known. You do not. Maybe some things that have happened to you in the past might make even a good policeman think that your arrival and the deaths are connected.”

  Well, if I’d needed a wake-up call, that was it. I could only imagine the poor chap was trying to let me know, without saying it, that Moreau had investigated my background and had discovered I’d been arrested on suspicion of murdering my boyfriend fifteen years earlier. Of course, he’d have also discovered that I’d been completely cleared and that, although the case remained unsolved, it was evident I’d had nothing to do with it at all.

  I reached out and patted Bertrand on the hand. “Thanks, I understand,” I said, quietly, “but I’ll be fine. I’ve worked with the police in Vancouver quite often, and I know that if I only tell the truth, it cannot hurt me. But I’ll take the list, in case at any point I feel as though I should shut up and get myself a lawyer.”

  He smiled at me and got up to leave.

  “By the way,” I asked, “do you know any of these people? Are any of them better than the others? Or worse?” I grinned, the best I could.

  Bertrand looked around somewhat furtively, then said, very quietly, “Laurent . . . he is my mother’s brother.” He winked, then walked away. I was left to contemplate my decision to go ahead without any representation. I hoped that my faith in the police was well founded, and that I wouldn’t regret it. Pondering this kept me busy for a few minutes until Bertrand popped his head around the door to the waiting room and announced that Moreau was ready for me.

  “That was quick,” I said, bearing in mind what I knew about
police interviews. They could sometimes go on for hours.

  “Her lawyer didn’t let her say much,” whispered Bertrand as I walked beside him toward a corridor lined with doors, one of which he opened. He stood back for me to enter.

  The room was a starkly lit cream-painted box, furnished with a desk and four chairs. Microphones on stands perched on each side of the table. Moreau was in one seat, and gesturing for me to sit opposite him. Before anyone spoke he turned on the recording device, then stated, in French of course, his own name, the date and time, and then invited me to state my full name, my temporary address in Nice, my home address, my date of birth, my occupation, and my nationality. I was surprised that I wasn’t asked for my shoe size or my vital statistics. He stated, for the record, that Officer Bertrand would be present to act as a translator, then told me, once again, that I had the right to legal representation—a right which I then formally declined.

  And then he was off. This time he made no attempt to speak slowly, and I had a real problem keeping up with him. Bertrand translated, which helped move things along.

  “The deaths of M. Alistair Townsend and Mme. Madelaine Schiafino are being investigated. You are here to answer questions relating to these matters, and any other matters I believe might be connected, in any way, to those deaths. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, I understand.”

  “We have already had an informal conversation about the events of Friday evening: your memories of them and your part in them.”

  “Yes.”

  “I will now ask you make a formal statement about these events, which will become the legal record. I will then ask further questions. Do you understand?”

  “Yes.” I was being incredibly positive so far.

  “Please begin,” added Moreau.

  I began to recount my meeting with Alistair in the Cours Saleya on Friday, the events of the evening, that night and the following morning, up to and including my meeting with Moreau at the station. It didn’t really take long.

  When I’d reached the point of my leaving the police station, Moreau interrupted my flow. “Good, this is all as I have it in my notes. There is nothing you would like to add at this time? Nothing else you have remembered?”

  I shook my head.

  He continued, “Now, if you will please tell me, for the record, what has happened since then.”

  “Certainly, but before I begin, may I ask if you have been contacted by Commander Bud Anderson from Vancouver?” I wanted to know so that I could decide how best it was to continue.

  Moreau looked puzzled and responded, “No, I have never heard of this man. Who is he, and why should I have heard from him?”

  “Bud Anderson ran the British Columbia Integrated Homicide Investigation team for a couple of years. During that time he used me as a consultant on many cases. As you know, I’m a criminologist. I specialize in criminal psychology, with an emphasis on victim profiling—or victimology. This is what Bud used me for. To be able to work with his team, I had to gain some pretty high level security clearances from all the branches of the local, provincial, and federal law enforcement bodies in Canada. Now, I suspect you’ve been checking my background since we last met, and I am assuming you’ve discovered that, about fifteen years ago, I was held for questioning about the death of my boyfriend, but was cleared. Completely. I spoke with Bud earlier today and he said he would contact you to make sure that you understood my role with his team, and, to be frank, to tell you that you could trust me to not be the perpetrator in this case.”

  “That is for me to decide, Professor, as I would have explained to your ‘friend’ if he had contacted me.” I felt a bit of a chill. I wondered if it would help if I used another approach.

  “Captain Moreau, I have declined legal representation at this time because I honestly believe that the truth cannot hurt me. I can only assure you that I am blameless in all of the matters that are being investigated . . . but I realize that, of course, you only have my word for this.”

  He nodded. He didn’t smile. I plowed on.

  “I’m going to tell you what’s happened to me since I left this police station this morning, but I’d also like to share some of my thoughts with you—because it’s not just what’s happened that’s important, but what I have learned. I think it might have a bearing on this case that’s vital.”

  Just as I was drawing breath to continue, Moreau held up his hand to stop me.

  “Professor Morgan—I am the investigator here, not you. Your interpretation of facts is irrelevant. I want you to tell me simply the events that have occurred, and not your whimsical inferences.” Bertrand had a bit of a problem translating this last bit, but I got the gist of it. Moreau was telling me to stick to the facts and not embellish.

  I was beginning to feel a bit of pressure from Captain Moreau. I knew I could help. I had to work out a way of doing so without appearing to step away from a recounting of “the facts.” I took the deep breath I’d been about to take when he’d stopped me and got on with it. I did my best and, because I didn’t include anything judgemental, or about food, or anything like that, I felt I’d done a pretty good job of telling him what had happened. Needless to say, it took a while as I’d had a busy day.

  He asked no questions, but he did take notes. I tried to not let the note taking throw me off course. When I’d finished I signified that I’d done so by describing my entrance into his office, about an hour earlier and rounded it all off with “There.” I felt like saying “Ta-Daaaa!” but I thought that would be a bit much.

  “That is your statement, Professor Morgan?” he asked dryly, taking the wind out of my sails. He sounded skeptical.

  “Ummm . . . yes,” I answered, unsure of what else he might have expected.

  He looked at me very seriously as he said, “You have used no notes, and yet you have given me a very detailed explanation of your day. Much more detailed than most people are able to offer. How do you do this?” It was a barbed question. He sounded almost cross with me.

  I sighed, knowing that the only way to proceed was to explain my “special gifts” to him, which wasn’t going to be fun, but which was clearly necessary. It would have all been so much easier if Bud had called him; then I wondered why he hadn’t. If Bud hadn’t offered, I would never have asked, and he’d been so insistent. Why hadn’t he done it? Bugger! I let out a sigh as I began, but begin I did.

  “Captain Moreau, when I was a child I thought I was developing like all my peers. I thought in a certain way, I saw things a certain way and I recalled things in a certain way—ways that, for me, were natural. It wasn’t until I hit my teen years that I realized I wasn’t normal . . . at least, not in certain ways. As I grew older, studied psychology at university, I realized that I have some abilities that are unusual, and which have not yet either been explained, or even agreed upon as existing, by scientists. I have what is called by some a ‘photographic memory.’” Moreau and Bertrand raised their eyebrows at this, but I kept going. “I don’t have autism or ADHD, but I can see and make sense of collections of things very quickly. I also have the ability to recall multi-sensory memories at will. These are skills I seem to have been born with, but which, having noted them, I have also worked to train in my adult life. I have not been investigated nor tested by anyone in a laboratory, so there is no evidence that I have these abilities, which I keep to myself. But I use them for my work.”

  Moreau shrugged, and moved in his seat. He didn’t seem to be sure about how to proceed. “Can you give me an example of what you mean?”

  I thought for a moment, then said, “When Tamsin emptied her handbag onto the back seat of Beni’s car, I couldn’t help myself, I ‘saw’ what was there. For the record it was five lipsticks, six wads of used paper towels, a dozen pens and pencils, two notebooks, a purse, a credit card wallet, two sets of keys, a bottle of water, and what looked like a handkerchief tied at one end to form a little bag. I saw the contents for about five seconds. If I close my eyes a
little, and hum to myself—I’m sorry, I don’t know why it helps to do that—I can see them all again now. I can do this to be able to revisit places I have been. I have been through this process for my own satisfaction re-thinking the events of last night and our discovery of Madelaine Schiafino’s body. I find it very useful. It helps me to see things I might have missed at the time—except, of course, I didn’t miss them because I must have encoded them to be able to recall them, if you see what I mean.” I got a bit carried away with the explanation, but it made sense to me. I wondered if it made sense to Moreau. It certainly seemed to have Bertrand intrigued.

  “This is interesting,” said Moreau slowly. “Do it for me now. Tell me about my office—the one where we met this morning. I know that room very well.” If he’d had a gauntlet about his person, he’d have been flapping it in my face.

  I hate it, absolutely hate it when people want me to perform like a trained bloody seal. It’s exactly why I don’t tell people all this stuff. It’s not a party trick. I did understand why Moreau wanted me to do it: he wanted to see if I was talking rubbish. And, to be fair, he’d come up with a good way of judging me. So I agreed, settled myself in my chair, screwed up my eyes and started to hum. Of course, I had to stop humming to be able to tell him what I was “seeing,” which threw me off a bit, but I did my best.

  “Your office smells of tobacco and lemon-scented polish. You don’t smoke in there now, but it has been smoked in for some time since the draperies, or furnishings, were cleaned. Otherwise it has a faint scent of—” I sniffed the air and said, surprised, “oh, it’s you! Lavender, rose, neroli. It’s not your cologne or after shave though. I think it’s a body lotion. The carpet in your office is fitted and relatively old. It is greasy in spots and your desk used to be in a different position—either that or there was another desk in the room as well for some time: there are marks on the carpet near the window on the far left where the other, or your, desk used to sit. Someone in there used to smoke a pipe—I can smell it as I walk toward your desk, though not at your desk. Maybe you used to have your desk elsewhere and you smoked a pipe then, or, more likely, your predecessor in the office had his desk in a different place, under the window, and he smoked a pipe. That’s more likely because, psychologically speaking, the new inhabitant of an office likes to move things around to put their own stamp on the place. I suggest that the office is always used by the person of your rank, and you took it over from your old boss, who you probably didn’t like very much.” Bertrand cleared his throat politely when I said this bit.