Erasing Memory

by Scott Thornley

  “About the time it took that guy to have a cigarette. If you want to wait, there’s a lounge down the hall with an espresso machine. There’s a fridge there too.”

  “That’s perfect. Do you want us to bring a coffee back for you?”

  “No, thanks. I’ve got enough of a buzz on just watching these screens.”

  Settling into a club chair with her espresso cup, Aziz glanced up at MacNeice, who was looking out at the courtyard garden, a space that looked both idyllic and lonely—intended to be seen and never wandered through. “What was it exactly about the way they walked?”

  “Maybe something with the arm swing. North American men generally don’t swing their arms like that. And the short steps they took—for big men it seemed strange, foreign.”

  “I think I get what you mean. The police academy’s ju-jitsu coach took short steps when he walked. I assumed it was so he could react quicker than if he was using a long stride. It looked strange though, and a little threatening, because he had long legs.”

  “That’s it. In all the great samurai movies, the samurai always take quick, short steps. And big men over here, even the ones who are violent—cops or otherwise—tend to saunter as if nothing could threaten them, as if they have lots of time. These guys walked as they were trained to walk.”

  “But how did you notice them in the first place?”

  “Because they looked so out of place. Everybody coming and going—including Petrescu and her boyfriend—looked like they belonged here … but not those boys.”

  MacNeice put down his espresso cup on the counter. “Here’s an exercise for you. Next time you look at that footage, try to convince yourself that those two men grew up here, went to college, got jobs and maybe have wives and kids, a house with a lawn sprinkler going and bikes in the driveway.”

  “Is this a new technique, sir?” Aziz smiled as she stood up and carried her cup over to the counter.

  “Years ago, an artist I knew told me that he would take his drawings—you know, just when he felt they were really good—and turn them upside down to look at them. Invariably he’d spot things that didn’t work, didn’t fit, that he couldn’t see looking right side up. His theory was that the true form of the drawing was revealed only when he turned it upside down. Well, this is a bit like that. I wasn’t looking at what they were doing or even so much where they were going. There was something upside down about the way they looked and walked—even the shoes.”

  “What about the shoes?”

  “Two heavies wearing the same footgear makes me think standard issue military.”

  Wilson appeared at the door with an envelope in his hand. “Here you go—it’s all there.” He handed it to MacNeice. “Let me know if there’s anything else you need.”

  “Well, we’ll need to know who the concierge was when these boys came through, and whether he noticed how they gained access. How many shifts do you use to cover this place?” MacNeice asked.

  “Six of us on rotating shifts—two weeks of nights, two of days, two of afternoons, and we also rotate weekends. It’s a good gig. A bit quiet, normally, but good.”

  “Why do they call you a concierge?” Aziz asked.

  “Just bullshit, really. I mean, I answer the phone if someone calls and I can order cabs, take in dry cleaning, book restaurants and that kind of thing, but really my background is digital surveillance. The guys on the desk are more like concierges, if that’s the word. I come here, I wear this Italian suit and a black tie, but for the most part I’m watching that console.… Speaking of which, I should get back.”

  “Thanks for your help.” MacNeice picked up his notebook and took one last look at the garden. A plant prison, he thought.

  He and Aziz shook hands with Wilson and walked ahead of him towards the entrance, passing the concierge, who was reading a magazine. As Wilson reached the door to his security room he turned back. “Oh, one thing I thought of, concerning the boyfriend …”

  “What’s that?” MacNeice asked

  “Well, if the guy had a bicycle, there’s a bike rack in the basement. Maybe he went down the stairs to the basement and rode out on his bike.” He shrugged to cover himself in case it wasn’t much of a theory.

  “That’s good—very good.” MacNeice smiled at him, and Wilson smiled back before he returned to his darkened room.

  Walking across the drive-by to the car, MacNeice said, “You see, just when I begin to think highly of my powers of observation, along comes hi-tech Jesse Wilson with a credible theory about the boyfriend that hadn’t occurred to me. It sure does keep you humble. And he doesn’t look like he’s seen the light—well, sunlight, at least—for days.”

  “Years.” Aziz opened the passenger door of the Chevy.

  FIFTEEN

  —

  AS MACNEICE PULLED UP in front of her apartment, Aziz unfastened her seatbelt but didn’t reach for the door handle. “What do you want me to focus on tomorrow?”

  “Well, the plates on that Range Rover had plastic shields, but the number might be readable in spite of the glare. Could you get the lab guys on that?”

  “Right. Anything else?”

  “We don’t know much about Antonin Petrescu other than that he owns a shop that trades in expensive furniture and old papers. I want to know if he’s connected to the two heavies in leather jackets.” MacNeice turned off the ignition and sat back. “We know his son is in the Romanian military, doing biomedical work of some kind. I want to know what kind, and where he is now.”

  “I have an idea. A good friend of mine in my doctoral graduating class ended up working for the U.N. as a security analyst. She did that for a few years and then last year she took a job with Interpol—again in security. She might know who we can speak to about the brother. I’ll Skype her when I get upstairs. She’s six hours ahead, so I might not reach her, but she’ll know I’m trying.”

  “Call me when you’ve spoken to her. She might be able to find out more about the father too.”

  “Why don’t you come up? I’ll make some tea and we can see if she’s online now.”

  “That would be nice, but Fiza … I don’t want to intrude.”

  “You’re not intruding, sir, and besides, I’d like to keep chasing this.”

  THE APARTMENT WAS MUCH SMALLER than Lydia Petrescu’s but with no less light. The view was somewhat obscured by a lower building next door, but looking over its roof MacNeice could see the Carolinian forest of the Royal Reserve rolling beyond the rooftops. “It’s a beautiful view.”

  From the kitchen she said, “Thanks, I love it.” He could hear the electric kettle coming to life. “I’m just going to change. Make yourself comfortable.”

  He looked at the paintings on the wall, mostly abstract and very colourful. On a bookcase shelf, sitting proud of the dozens of novels and fat volumes on criminology and psychology, was a photograph of Aziz standing at attention with her parents in London. She must have been fourteen or so, and she wore black trousers, a tweed jacket and a headscarf. She wasn’t smiling, but neither did she appear unhappy—a look MacNeice had come to know. Her parents were smiling broadly, and he noted that her mother hadn’t covered her hair, and was using a hand to keep it from flying into her face in the breeze. Behind them was one of the bridges that stretch over the Thames.

  “I had just won a scholarship to a very exclusive school. They were very proud and I was very nervous.”

  He turned to look at Aziz, who was now in a T-shirt and sweatpants. “Nervous? You don’t show it. What bridge is that?”

  “Waterloo. Have you been to London?” She headed back to the kitchen.

  “Yes, though not for some time. When we were there, it rained so much we were always running from cabs to hotels, cabs to restaurants, cabs to museums and concert halls. I got to know and love the London taxis.” He moved to the dining room table, which was positioned somewhat tightly next to the kitchen. He sat down to watch her making tea.

  “You must be hungry—I certainly
am. I have some beautiful cured ham that the Mennonites make, and I’ve also got a baguette.” Without waiting for his response, she sliced the baguette in half and then sliced the two pieces lengthwise.

  The small kitchen had by necessity been designed ergonomically, and like a dancer she pivoted tidily from counter to refrigerator and took out the ham, some cheese and prepared mustard. In a couple of minutes she was in front of him with a plate. “I’ve got the tea cozy over the pot so the tea can steep. How about some water, though?”

  “Water’d be great, thank you. I remember how the English complained about the damp and cold and how people seemed to be freezing all the time, but everyone had a tea cozy to keep their tea warm.”

  Aziz smiled but made no comment.

  They made small talk about the neighbourhood as they ate, and when they’d finished their sandwiches, MacNeice said, “I thought Muslims didn’t eat pork.”

  “That’s true. And Catholics don’t eat meat on Fridays.”

  “I hope I’m not being rude.”

  “You aren’t, and I’m not sensitive about it. Nor was I earlier with Mr. Petrescu, though I was happy you thought I was and got me out of the room.”

  “I’m embarrassed to say that I know little about your religion beyond what I read in the newspapers. I hope my curiosity isn’t offensive to you.”

  “It isn’t. I just happen to be fairly private about my beliefs, in part because I know that my religion is a cause of great suspicion and fear around the world.”

  “Not for me it isn’t.”

  “Perhaps not.… Yes, I can see that it isn’t.”

  “Seeing the photo in London, though, I did wonder about the headscarf, and why you don’t wear one now.”

  “I’m still devout but, paradoxically, I’ve chosen to ignore many of the outward signs of that belief—such as not eating pork, such as that headscarf. My family has an aversion to any kind of fundamentalism.” She looked over at the picture on the bookshelf and changed the subject. “Let’s look and see if my friend is online. Her name is Bozana Pietrowska; she’s got two passports, and one is Polish.”

  The computer was on a small desk by the living room window. He pulled up one of the dining room chairs to sit next to her. Aziz logged on and fired off a message that showed up onscreen as a grey silhouette. With an electronic burp, a blonde woman with high cheekbones and a flashing smile replaced the silhouette. She was wearing a deep blue sweater that looked electric in the low-res image.

  “What a lovely surprise, and how typically you, Fiz. I was just finishing notes from a meeting today and getting ready to shut down. How are you? And who’s that next to you? Ask him to slide into view.”

  “It’s my boss, Bo. Meet Detective Superintendent MacNeice. Mac, this is my former roommate, Bozana Pietrowska.” To MacNeice she said, “You see this little window on the screen? You’ve got to get closer to see yourself and be seen.”

  MacNeice shoved his chair over so it was touching hers. Suddenly he appeared beside her in the small frame above Bozana Pietrowska’s head. She smiled, smoothed her hair back with both hands and said, “Is this a business call?” Something in her voice suggested she was hoping it was otherwise.

  “Yes, Bo. We’re dealing with the murder of a young woman here and there’s a connection to Romania.”

  “Arggh—all roads these days are leading to Romania for me.” Bozana turned away for a moment, then came back into frame. “What is it?”

  “A microbiologist specializing in infectious diseases. He’s a colonel in the Romanian army named Gregori Petrescu, stationed in Bucharest.”

  Bozana had opened her laptop computer and was tapping in the information.

  “He’s the brother of the deceased,” Aziz continued. “We’re interested in knowing his whereabouts and what exactly he’s working on.”

  MacNeice moved slightly closer to Aziz and centred himself in the window on the screen before he spoke. “We also want to know anything about the father, who lives here but has ties there as well. His name is Antonin Petrescu. He deals in antique furniture and papers, documents and letters, and he too appears to have a background in microbiology.”

  “Why don’t you just ask him?” Bozana kept typing, though she did look up at the screen for his response.

  “A good question. My only answer at the moment is that this killing seems to be some form of message to the father.”

  “Fair enough. Anything else?”

  After a quick nod from MacNeice, Aziz said, “That’s it for now. Sleep well, Bo, and thanks. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

  “You too, Fiz—you look tired. It’s Sunday over there; what are you doing working my friend on a Sunday, Detective MacNeice?”

  Aziz jumped in before he could answer. “Totally my choice.”

  “Lighten up, Fiz. Listen, I’ll have something for you when you wake up. Like I said, I’ve been a bit inundated with Romania, so you’ve lucked out—I’ve got three people dedicated to it on my team. Dobranoc, Fiza, and goodnight, Detective MacNeice.” The window went blank with another burp, and their images disappeared with it.

  “What’s dobranoc?” MacNeice said, moving his chair away from her.

  “It’s Polish for goodnight.” Aziz shut down the computer. “Right, let’s have our tea.”

  MacNeice helped clear the lunch dishes, then she led him over to one of the two upholstered chairs adjacent to the sofa and sat on the sofa facing him. “I want to know more about what influences your work, Mac.”

  “Influences.… It sounds so lofty. Almost everything, I guess.”

  She could see that he was struggling to provide more of an answer, and waited patiently.

  “I think what we do is intuitive, but it’s also essentially about observation.” He was looking down at his cup as if he was reading the tea leaves. “If your work is about observation, then it seems only natural—to me at least—that you never stop observing. You observe obsessively … and minutely. You train yourself to look inside, outside, peripherally. You study art and music, the way people dance, walk, lie—and tell the truth. You record your dreams and you’re willing to learn from them.” He put the cup down on top of the circular end table next to him. “Am I making any sense?”

  “I think so. Go on.” She looked at him over the rim of her cup.

  “Sadly, I can’t. I only know that much. Everything influences my observation—absolutely everything.” He moved slightly, as if he was uncomfortable or about to stand up, but he didn’t. “Sitting at the computer just now, I noticed the wear on the desk where you put your hands every day. I noticed the imprint from a ballpoint pen where you’ve written letters and signed cheques on the soft wood—white pine, I think. Some keys on your computer are more worn than others, and there’s a slight whitening on the edge of the desk where I suspect you rub your right hand when it’s itchy or numb from working at the keyboard—but not your left, because you’re right-handed.”

  Aziz looked nonplussed but said, “Anything else?”

  “The stains on the right where you put your teacup—they’re all within an inch of each other, like a series of quarter-moons on the pine. Your attention is usually on the computer when you set the cup down—conveniently within reach, so you can pick it up without looking. I also noticed a bookmark in your criminology text that I think is a boarding pass—Lufthansa, 2006.”

  He paused as if considering whether he should go on. “I noticed a scent about you that wasn’t there till you changed clothes—lavender, I think.” Until then he’d been looking at her feet, but now he met her gaze. “There’s a crumb on the left side of your mouth that’s been there since you took the second-to-last bite of your sandwich.” He smiled awkwardly and looked away. “All this while we were talking to someone who could really help in the case.”

  Aziz set her cup down on the end table and wiped her mouth.

  When MacNeice spoke next, he sounded apologetic. “It’s probably a clinical obsession. It’s not something I can
turn off and it’s not necessarily something I think you should learn how to do.”

  “My mother makes sachets of lavender from her garden. I have one in every drawer. I don’t notice it anymore.”

  “I like it.” He stood up. She sat watching him as he moved towards the window and looked out over the rooftops to the forest. “I should go.”

  “Okay. I’ll see you off then.” She stood up and went over to the door.

  MacNeice came away from the window, walked over to her and shook her hand. “Thank you, Fiza, for the sandwich and tea, and also for the call to Bozana. I’ll see you tomorrow.” He was gone before she could say goodbye.

  BOZANA WAS PEERING THROUGH both distance and time. For her it was one in the afternoon, for Fiza Aziz it was six a.m.

  “Sorry, Bo, I stayed up late.…” She yawned and roughed up her sleep-flattened hair.

  “Good for you! I thought there might be something between you two.” Bozana wagged a finger at the screen and laughed.

  “What? No! It’s not like that. He’s my bloody boss—I mean, my superior officer. Can you hold on while I get a glass of water?” She didn’t wait for a reply but heard Bozana’s voice say, “Sure.”

  As she slid back into the chair and into frame, Bozana said, “Okay, okay. Though you two do look good together.”

  “Thank you, I think. What do you have?”

  Aziz wiped the sleep from her eyes and tried to focus on what Bozana was saying, but her mind kept going back to MacNeice. After realizing she’d missed several seconds of what her friend was telling her, she held up a hand. “Sorry, Bo, I spaced out for a second. Could you tell me again? I promise I’ll pay attention.” She picked up a pad and made a show of being ready to write everything down.

  “Okay, so listen this time. I’ve tracked down your Gregori Petrescu—well, at least to where he was a few days ago. I can also tell you that he is running the infectious diseases unit of the Romanian army.” She reached over, brought a folder into frame and opened it on her desk. “I haven’t found out exactly what he does, but I think he’s a spook. My suspicion is that his unit is developing infectious diseases, not ways to guard against them, though probably he’s doing that too.”