The Drowned Man

by David Whellams

“No need. My daughter-in-law will drop me off.” The note of pride in Peter’s voice surprised them both.

  “Okay, then.”

  “What’s the story on Carpenter’s hire car?”

  “Nothing yet. We know that the hotel in Montreal didn’t arrange one, and no rental agency has called about an overdue unit. Nicola’s office says they’re in the dark. She reluctantly agreed to have her people ring up the various auto outlets. Her man, name of Neil Brayden, will pick you up at Trudeau International Airport.”

  Peter guessed that John Carpenter had hired a vehicle. He could imagine a half-dozen ways to track down the rental — had anyone thought to search the parking lot at Trudeau International? A morbid thought popped into his mind. Was it possible that Carpenter was run down by his own car? But he said nothing. Let Bartleben worry about what he would or would not delve into in Montreal. Peter felt his resentment returning and could not resist declaring himself with a last dig.

  “And Stephen, we can talk when I return, but let me liaise with Frank Counter while I’m over there. After all, it’s just a dead body.”

  Maddy arrived at four o’clock in her Saab — a sensible car, but for its cherry-red paint job. She worked in women’s services in Leeds and travelled frequently to poor neighbourhoods to visit abused women and local shelters. The bright red sedan let the men know she was coming, she said.

  Smiling broadly, she got out of the car with two plastic sacks stuffed with groceries, and immediately took them to the kitchen and began to unpack. Peter and Jasper traipsed in from the veranda; he had forgotten what a whirlwind of energy Maddy was. She was taller than the Cammons and her long, thick black hair held a reddish undertone that glinted in the afternoon sunshine.

  She patted Jasper and pecked Peter on the cheek, and within minutes laid out the components of supper on the counter in a logical sequence. Accepting his offer of a drink, she joined him in a beer rather than wine; she knew that he preferred the former. She insisted that they eat at the dining room table and that he help with the preparations, which meant that he had to root out a table cloth, napkins, and the silver. Like Sarah, Maddy had joined Joan’s cabal to manage him in his retirement.

  They continued to drink beer through supper. Afterwards, they remained in the dining room. Peter noted that Jasper stayed close to Maddy throughout the evening. Every few minutes, Maddy rubbed the ears of the gentle retriever. Peter was pleased that she liked the dog. Although he had bought her in part for Benjamin, the loss of the child had not distorted Jasper’s place in the family. The turns of old age astonished him. The two old survivors, Peter and his dog, sat at the family table with a young woman he hardly knew. The angled sun from the west highlighted Maddy’s hair and the golden ale she swirled in her glass. The harmony of the moment sparked an emotion in Peter.

  “It may not be appropriate but I want to tell you directly how sorry I am about Benjamin,” he said.

  She smiled. “That’s okay. We’re all right. You know, Peter, we called him Benj, even for that short time. Always Benj.”

  “I know.”

  “But you’ve always called him Benji or Benjamin.”

  “I am sorry. I didn’t mean . . .”

  “No, that’s not a problem. I only mean that it shows your obsessive-compulsive side. ‘Benj’ is rarely used, I know. You figured the normal would be Benji and Benjamin, so you kept using it.” She saw that he was upset. “I apologize. Profusely. I’m not criticizing you, really, Peter.”

  She leaned over and patted his hand, and sat back in her chair.

  A mischievous look came across her face. His detective’s neurons told him that not only did she have something on her mind but that she would take a while to get there.

  “Why are you headed for Montreal?” she said.

  “An officer with Scotland Yard has died. It’s customary for one of us to accompany the body back to England on the plane. That’s me.” Peter had kept his reply casual, planting a dead body in the conversation while not disclosing any inside information. He waited for her reaction.

  She wasn’t put off by the image of the corpse, he could see, nor was she impressed by the idea of Peter riding in the passenger cabin with a coffin stored a few feet below.

  “It’ll be great for you!” She smacked the table. Her conviction startled him. She made the assignment seem a Boy’s Own adventure. Evidently she had been consulting Sarah, and probably Joan. Before he could speak, she said, “You don’t want to cut out a major part of what defines you.”

  “I don’t?”

  “Mum tells me you see this as a very limited job.”

  “Joan does? Oh, yes. I’ve no interest in going back full-time. This lets me stay on the outside.”

  She stood up and fetched two more bottles from the refrigerator. “Peter, you are a force to be reckoned with.”

  “Nobody’s said that to me before. What do you mean?”

  “You’re trusted. Detective emeritus. You could throw your weight around, if you chose to. You have the chance to define the task the way it suits you.”

  “I think I’ve done exactly that.”

  “Fair enough. You’ve defined the limitations of the case but what about the larger challenge? What’s the positive, important part of the case?”

  “Important? I don’t know yet. To be honest, I don’t intend to find out.”

  If he hoped to shut down this line of discussion, he failed completely.

  “Joan told me once over lunch that you always find the moral centre of your cases. You come across as unemotional and methodical — all good, by the way — but you see the humanity, the poignancy of the victims and criminals. My words, not Joan’s. Sorry to be baroque.”

  “I certainly don’t know what this case is really about,” Peter said.

  “Okay, but none of us kids think you’re ready to give it all up. I don’t want to see you slide into retirement.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “A vocation that puts humanity on display? Can’t be quick to chuck all that.” She had exceeded a daughter-in-law’s privilege, and knew it. “I’m sorry. I deal with battered women. I see humans at almost their worst every day, and I want to toss it sometimes. You have every right to retire. Every right.” She scratched the top of Jasper’s head.

  “Tell me, what would be the opposite of sliding?”

  She perked up. “Maybe you’ll get shot.”

  “A bang and not a whimper?” Peter immediately said.

  Just then Jasper, lying under the dining room table, whimpered in her dream, a keening sound. Peter and Maddy laughed, breaking some of the awkwardness.

  “You’re an extraordinary woman, dear,” Peter said.

  “Michael told me you’ve killed six men.”

  “Lord, that’s blunt . . . Maybe seven. And I’m not proud of any of them. For the record, I didn’t expect to shoot anyone on any of those occasions. I was thinking about that the other day, in fact. Four of those times I wasn’t originally carrying a weapon. I was handed a gun at the scene.”

  Anyone else would have demanded the gory details but Maddy held back, even though she looked curious. She was indeed an extraordinary woman, Peter thought.

  The extinguishing night was closing in now and only a guttering candle on the dining room table and the standing lamp behind the television lit the room. A pair of headlamps came silently down the lane. Maddy turned and looked at him inquiringly; Jasper raised her head with only the mildest interest.

  “Delivery from London,” Peter said, and got up and went out to the front garden.

  “Invite him in for a drink. London’s a long way.”

  “He won’t stay.”

  Peter stepped down from the porch and walked out into the darkness. Three minutes later, he came back in with a large envelope, which was covered in striped tape and “confidential” lab
els. He had already opened it to check the girl’s passport. Maddy was visibly impressed.

  “Well, we should call it a night,” Peter said.

  She didn’t budge. “You’re kidding.”

  “What?”

  “No hints about what’s in the envelope?”

  Peter sat down at the table, as if merely to finish his beer. Maddy waited, pretending to listen to the crickets as he examined the shipment from London. He darted a look at her. She was right: it was time to redefine his relationship with the Yard, although he thought he had done that by retiring. He knew that he couldn’t work the same old way and that he had to shake up his stale detective’s habits, but what did this minor assignment mean to a seventy-one-year-old copper who was stuck halfway between his old mindset and complacent retirement?

  The documents lay on the tablecloth between them. He knew Maddy wouldn’t press any further tonight; it was up to him.

  He made a decision that would have been unacceptable to him only hours before.

  “Dear, you asked about the assignment in Montreal. I don’t know the ‘essence’ of this case and I doubt that I’ll find out while I’m there. The moral centre, as you call it, is far out of sight. But let’s agree on a starting point: the mystery is real enough and the solution isn’t self-evident. I’m going to show you something that would certainly earn me a reprimand. So keep this between us.”

  She nodded.

  “I’m only asking for your reaction, your visceral response, if you will,” he said.

  Peter was pleased. He liked Maddy. She found his profession intriguing and she hadn’t asked any stupid questions so far. He was willing to test her — he was still hesitant — but the urge to run through the evidence with her was very strong. There was the gender factor, too, he rationalized; she might see a dimension to the woman that he would miss. His instincts told him that there was something strange about Alice Nahri.

  He slid the photocopy of the face page of Alice’s British passport across the table, along with the computer records of her passage through British passport control. When he saw that Maddy had finished one run-through, he looked her in the eye and said, “Here’s what we know about Miss Nahri. She sat in the seat next to the victim, who is a Scotland Yard officer, and according to the victim’s brother she was his girlfriend. I talked to the brother yesterday up in Lincolnshire, where the family lives.”

  “How long had she been his girlfriend?”

  “Not known at this point. Neighbours and coworkers will be interviewed and we’ll narrow it down. Good question, though. I’m guessing not longer than three or four months. The brother thinks only two months.”

  “But serious enough that he took her home to meet his brother.”

  “And his senile mother, but not his sister. He didn’t introduce them.”

  “Why? Do you think he was ashamed of Alice?” Maddy said.

  “No one at work seems to have met her. I think he agreed at her request to keep their relationship secret. On the other hand, he insisted on at least introducing his brother. The mother, who is close to senility, posed no danger to Alice, since she would certainly forget all about the visit,” Peter said. “But I’m not sure about Carole, the sister. The family’s name is Carpenter.”

  For the next half hour he briefed her on John Carpenter’s background. At the end of his account, he pointed back to Alice’s picture.

  “Impressions?”

  Maddy took her time, examining the photos of the Alice and the dead man by the candle’s light. “It says she’s thirty-two but she does look younger. Beautiful. Portrait is well lit, flattering. Shows she paid well to have the picture taken. God knows, the rest of us should follow her. This is a British passport but she was born in Bihar . . . I actually know a couple of women from Bihar. Dirt poor, that place. She could be a naturalized immigrant but I’m guessing one of her parents is British by birth. Just from her face, she looks mixed.”

  “You’re right about the mother. Notes from headquarters indicate Mrs. Nahri may still be alive, but no address known. No information on the father, except that he’s deceased.”

  Maddy turned to the list of border crossings appended to the passport face page. “There’s a notation showing she entered the U.K. from Pakistan six months ago, and several times before that. Wouldn’t an Indian-born woman have trouble getting in and out of Pakistan?”

  “Perhaps, but a British passport would have eased the way. We lack a full picture of her travels. My impression is that she moved around a lot more than indicated. We’ll check with customs in Pakistan and elsewhere. She may have both Indian and Pakistani papers.”

  Over the next twenty minutes he expanded the briefing to cover the elusive Civil War letters and the disappearance of both the documents and the cash. He did not over-theorize, except to mildly disparage Nicola Hilfgott’s erratic behaviour. He showed Maddy the autopsy report and translated the French where she faltered. Still, at the conclusion, he realized that his narrative, with its deliberate and unintentional gaps, formed a threadbare tale.

  Maddy said nothing for a long time. She understood the strictures on what he could disclose. She also seemed aware that he was testing her.

  He put the papers to one side. “I can only give you limited details, and as a result this may sound like half a puzzle. Can you make any sense of it?”

  She finished the dregs of her beer. “Okay. Some would conclude that John Carpenter didn’t tell his employer that he was bringing his girlfriend, in case the Yard didn’t approve. It was already a bit sketchy, the whole holiday thing, right? Plus, he didn’t want to give the impression he wasn’t available to put in the hours in Montreal if the consul general demanded it. He kept Alice under wraps with everyone. Still, there seems little harm in introducing the sister.”

  “A racial thing, perhaps?” Peter said.

  “No!” Maddy rapped on the table. “It was the woman’s plan. He insisted on introducing the mother and brother but she balked at the sister, who would perhaps see through her wiles.”

  “You’re right,” Peter said. “Same approach in Canada. Never met Nicola Hilfgott.”

  “Right. And she could have visited the morgue in Montreal after John’s murder but I bet she didn’t. She’s a secretive one. I wonder if anyone remembers her at the hotel they stayed in.”

  Maddy would have stayed up all night debating every shred of the investigation but she saw that Peter was winding down. She stood up and collected the beer bottles.

  “Sorry to bore you, Maddy,” Peter said.

  “You didn’t bore me and you know it. I’m interested. I’ll start the coffee in the morning. I’m an early riser.”

  “So am I.”

  On the way up to the master bedroom, Peter found himself nodding in agreement. Maddy’s scenario about the woman felt right. And his daughter-in-law’s fervour had paid him the greatest compliment she could have delivered: she reminded him of his old self.

  CHAPTER 7

  Maddy was first downstairs in the morning, and although Peter was only thirty minutes behind her, she had already fed Jasper, let the dog out into the front garden, and installed herself at the computer station. Her flying fingers had launched her on multiple Google probes of distant realms.

  She turned, bright and carefree. “I didn’t try to crack your Scotland Yard password.”

  Peter cleared his throat. “When they started giving out secure email hook-ups, they had to advise employees to stop using variations on ‘Moriarty’ and ‘Mrs. Hudson.’”

  “There’s coffee in the kitchen.” When he returned, she said, “Well, I’ve scored a goose egg on ‘Alice Nahri.’ No one by that name. Most people don’t stay anonymous these days. There are Nahris in the state of Bihar but nothing to lead us to this woman. I’ve blanked. Why do you think that is?”

  “I don’t think. It’s too early.”


  Undeterred, she continued: “Do you think she’s using a pseudonym?”

  “I have no idea. Let’s get going.”

  A half hour later, with Jasper and her chew toys in the back seat and Peter’s Gladstone bag in the boot of the Saab, they left the cottage. They fell into the previous night’s rhythm, Peter beginning: “You don’t manage to get a British passport without a real birth certificate. We know her mother’s name and that’s probably how London will track down her whereabouts. Info from the airlines will also tell us whether Alice booked her own travel.”

  “You said you met John Carpenter?”

  “Spoke with him just once,” Peter said. “I was trying to bird-dog a killer through an airline passenger list from a flight bound for Manchester from Barcelona. Carpenter did a good job, figuring that the fugitive had changed passports in mid-flight, and thus arrived in Britain with a new identity.”

  “How did Carpenter figure it out?” Maddy asked.

  “He noted the mismatch of passenger names between the departure manifest and the arrivals processed through British customs.”

  Traffic proved lighter than expected and it was not long before several aircraft flying up from Heathrow came into view. As Maddy and Peter wound their way onto the airport access road, she channelled the conversation towards next steps.

  “Do you think anyone made good copies of the letters, the ones supposedly written by John Wilkes Booth? Somebody thought they were important.”

  “I’ll find out,” Peter said. “But I know what you’re getting at. Why would anyone kill to get hold of them?”

  “Such a waste.” Maddy’s sympathy was genuine but there was girlish excitement there as well. “Alice’s flight to Montreal?”

  “What about it?”

  “It would interesting if she booked only a one-way ticket.”

  Peter unloaded his gear at a drop-off stand by Departures and said goodbye to Jasper, now in the front seat, through the passenger window. Maddy leaned across, and with a mischievous look, said, “Peter, do you have a gun in your suitcase?”