The Drowned Man

by David Whellams

  “Second-degree? Why not first-degree?” Nicola said.

  It was to Malloway’s credit that he did not overtly grimace. His manner turned formal as he diverted to another subject. “Peter, could you debrief on Washington?”

  Peter roused himself and leaned forward, hands folded on the table. With a minimum of speculation he reviewed the Anacostia River murder, leaving out specifics of the jellyfish attacks and most of the forensics while making certain to convey the desperation Alice must have felt as she abused her victim and made her escape. He emphasized the teamwork that the Bureau was bringing to bear on the hunt for Alice. He summed up. “The young woman did all this to buy time. It’s highly unlikely she’ll return to Canada, so our best chance is the FBI. Dunning, you’ve talked to Special Agent Pastern. Anything more to add?”

  Malloway shrugged. “The warrants are out there. Alice Nahri is a vicious piece of work, I’ll say that.”

  “Where do we think the girl is now?” Hilfgott said with impatience.

  Peter and Malloway fell into a rhythm. It was in no one’s interest to overstimulate Nicola, to drive her to make any form of contact with the American government.

  “The federal warrant has nationwide application,” Malloway said. “It’s in the hands of the FBI. I’ll be going to Washington at some point to reinforce our interest in prompt action. Nahri and Greenwell may be in cahoots. Much depends on what evolves with Greenwell here in Montreal and I’ll work with Deroche on that.”

  Nicola leaned forward. “Does she have any of the letters, for God’s sake?”

  Malloway took a deep breath and fixed his gaze on the consul general. “Alice Nahri is a stupid tart. How did she think she’d dupe anyone, killing a woman of a different race and dumping the body in the river, where it would be found easily? The Bureau will pick her up very soon.”

  Malloway’s flash of anger shocked Peter. There was no need for it. And then another wild thought occurred to him. Was it possible that Dunning had a completely different take on the girl? Had John Carpenter showed her off at the office, and was Malloway now seeking some form of retribution? His entire focus was on Alice, it seemed.

  “We have a file on her,” Malloway said. “Nicola, this is part of the official inquiry, so I ask you to keep it confidential. Alice Nahri was born in Bihar of an Indian father and a British mother. The father is dead but the mother is in a home in Henley-on-Thames. Our people are visiting her to see if her daughter has been in touch. I have also met with the brother of the victim, Joe Carpenter, who is about the only person who has met Alice. It’s a long shot but if there is any family contact, we will know. Now, here is the confidential stuff. I have contacted the Central Bureau of Investigation in Delhi. Alice Nahri is known to have had involvement with criminal organizations in India, Pakistan, and Nepal. She was seen with leaders of the Maoist rebels in Bihar State, where there have been numerous attacks on local politicians and gun battles with police in the Kaimur Hills. She is known to Nepalese authorities as a smuggler of gems and drugs across the Indian border. Bihar is adjacent to Nepal, and her hometown is on the main trade route to Kathmandu.”

  The briefing was winding down. Neil Brayden came into the boardroom, as if on cue. He nodded to Peter and took a chair on his side of the table as Nicola took charge again, avoiding eye contact with Malloway.

  Nicola sighed dramatically. “The next issue is to be kept in absolute secrecy,” she stated, her low tone implying that her fixations outweighed the policing concerns of the Yard’s detectives. “Let me put the matter of treason and terrorism back on the table . . .”

  To Peter’s knowledge, terrorism hadn’t yet made it to the table.

  “Has everyone read the letters, as I reproduced them from memory?” The question was half-rhetorical, no acknowledgement expected. “The letter from Booth to Commander Williams indicates that in 1864 there were serious anti-government conspiracies operating in Canada East. Wilkes Booth made contact with the conspirators, it appears, and Williams promised to do something about them.”

  Dunning Malloway sat back and tapped his fingertips on the edge of the polished table. “As I recall, Williams’s response was highly contingent . . .”

  Nicola interrupted yet again. “Williams felt compelled to promise ‘to oversee the expression of a French-Canadian cause.’” As Peter had mentioned to Pascal, he was sure that the original had promised “suppression” of the agitators; she had misremembered, perhaps consciously.

  “Only ‘if verified,’” Malloway said.

  “Which Booth does.”

  Peter watched the flare-up and began to appreciate why Bartleben wanted Malloway to hammer on Nicola. She was relentless and unstable. She was even loonier than Peter had thought and that’s why Malloway wanted him there.

  “Nicola, do you believe the three letters are useful for anything in particular?” Malloway asked in an effort to move towards closure.

  “Dunning, have you heard of Professor Olivier Seep?”

  “No.”

  “Chief Inspector?”

  “No,” Peter said, looking away.

  Nicola got up from her chair and paced. “Monsieur Seep is a prominent separatist. He’s an adviser to the Parti Québécois. He supplies their rhetoric, although the PQ hardly lacks self-appointed philosophers. He is a radical, make no mistake. The province has endured two referenda, which narrowly defeated the separatist option, and these radicals are waiting for the opportune moment to force a third. It all depends on fomenting the right atmosphere.” She shook her head. “The independence movement is always on the lookout for a trigger, a cause célèbre.”

  “More like a casus belli,” Malloway said, unnecessarily.

  “The talk around town has been building, gentlemen. In recent days, Monsieur Seep, who is planning his run for a seat in the National Assembly, has been planting hints that he has seen the Williams letter, the one containing the reply to Booth. He made a speech this week, full of innuendo. He’s likely, in my view, to launch more attacks accusing the government at the time of Confederation of suppressing legitimate French-Canadian interests.”

  “How do you ‘plant hints’?” Malloway asked. Peter felt a moment of admiration for the man.

  “I have no doubt that Seep has the letter or has seen it, or knows where to find it,” she said.

  There was an awkward silence. The meeting had served little purpose, other than to keep Nicola at bay. Besieged, she could only glare at the three men as the sun angling through her boardroom window caught her in its spotlight. Malloway had performed well. Still, Peter kept wondering why he and the consul general hadn’t hashed out these issues at the mansion the evening before.

  Finally, Dunning Malloway said, in a friendly tone, mostly for Nicola’s benefit, “Well, Peter, have a safe trip home.”

  Peter walked back along Rue de la Cathédrale to the Bonaventure with Malloway. For several minutes they remained silent while they allowed the September sun to burn away the tension of the meeting. Malloway invited Peter for a drink in the bar but he begged off. They stood for a minute at the bottom of the stairs by the hotel entrance.

  Malloway was aware that Peter would have to abandon Montreal soon and fly back to England. “Any more advice before you go, Peter?”

  “If Frank hasn’t already done so, hand Deroche a copy of all three of the recreated letters, even if Hilfgott keeps objecting,” Peter said. “Better Deroche see the text from us rather than others.”

  There was one last question hovering in the air and Dunning posed it now.

  “What role do you plan to play in all this, Peter? I don’t see that you have one now.”

  Peter regarded the question as unanswerable and impertinent. If and when the time came to choose a part, he was pretty sure that Bartleben would back him up. For now, he didn’t care how Dunning Malloway saw it. He shrugged but then on impulse, said, “No ro
le for me, Dunn.”

  “I hear you pulled a gun on Carpenter’s brother,” Malloway continued.

  “Where did you hear that?” Peter said.

  “From the brother. I went to see Carpenter’s family.”

  “Well, there were guns involved. No one was prepared to shoot it out.”

  “In a church? I should hope not.”

  Peter was unfazed but the comment sent his thinking in a new direction. Malloway’s visit to the Carpenters in New Bosk hadn’t been necessary. Yes, he might maintain that he had been paying his respects to the family but perhaps he had dropped by for the reason Peter himself might want to visit again: to learn more about the girl. Maybe Alice was important to Malloway for reasons that Peter hadn’t yet imagined.

  “Did you know they haven’t held the funeral yet?” Malloway said.

  This time Peter’s puzzlement showed. Malloway looked victorious.

  “Why the devil haven’t they?” Peter said.

  “Joe Carpenter says he won’t bury his brother until his killer is convicted.”

  CHAPTER 26

  Peter had a dream that night, a variation on what he called his Horror Dream. A stock cast of players populated the dream, all family, and this time, as usual, he was caught struggling to reach the roof of a large building to rescue Joan. He was alert to small alterations in the setting. His brother, Lionel, made a rare appearance this time; he stood to one side, tall, silver-haired, and patrician — a contrast to Peter. Sarah was there and Michael waited next to her dressed like a groom at a wedding. Curtains of water formed the walls; that was different. Peter, alone, climbed twisting Escher staircases up to the roof. When he reached the top platform, no one was waiting; Joan wasn’t there. A black pistol, probably a .38, lay on the tarred roof. Peter rarely described his dreams to anyone, and for good reason. A listener would say that this one was a typical anxiety dream. Peter considered the water image. Alice Nahri was connected to water, having drowned one victim, perhaps two. But she didn’t appear on the rooftop in Peter’s nightmare. Peter knew that a dream is about the dreamer. Standing on the windswept roof, he himself was an isolated figure — no one’s rescuer.

  He awoke at 5 a.m. in Pascal’s spare bedroom. The fan in the erratic air-conditioning system boomed air through the ducts and then shut down with a thump. It was the latter noise that jarred him awake. Earlier that night Pascal had insisted that they walk up Greene Avenue to a favourite café. Peter had accepted in good humour, for he had decided to end his Montreal sojourn — he could follow the two investigations, Washington and Montreal, from afar — and, with this feeling of finality, he had gotten drunk with Pascal. The booze had blurred a lingering sense of dejection.

  And that was what the dream told him. His isolation had left him powerless to help John Carpenter, or anyone else in this investigation. He was no closer to finding the killer. He was still inclined to go after the girl, and in his mind he listed a dozen ways to find Alice Nahri. His dilemma was how to reinsert himself into the case, and when.

  What Peter knew was this: the investigation of young Carpenter’s demise was dragging because a crowd of lonely, self-absorbed men and women, one of them probably his killer, still haunted the Lachine Canal and refused to step into the single spotlight by the old factory.

  He got out of bed and went downstairs to the kitchen, where he opened the well-stocked fridge and examined his breakfast options. The sight of stacked bottles of beer curdled his stomach. He poured a glass of orange juice and began to make phone calls.

  “Hello. Frank Counter . . . ”

  “It’s Peter, Frank. I’m in Montreal en route to Heathrow.”

  “Have you seen Malloway?” Counter didn’t seem surprised by the call.

  “Yes. He invited me to sit in with him at his session with Nicola yesterday afternoon.”

  “Crikey. How did that go?”

  “Smoothly, I’d say. Malloway was masterful. You can tell him I said so.”

  Frank Counter liked people to get along. “I think he fills the bill nicely.”

  “Right. By the way, what else does Malloway have on his plate?” Peter wanted to see if Frank Counter’s response matched Bartleben’s.

  “Well, he’s worked on a few drug cases, some international liaison with Southeast Asia and the Subcontinent. He’s on that group we set up on the Pakistani cricket scandal, the News of the World thing. That mess is exploding and I could sure use him back here now. You saw the News story?”

  Peter ignored the question. “Did Dunning volunteer for the cricket thing?”

  “Yes. With his exposure to India, it was a natural fit.”

  Peter used Pascal’s phone to call Maddy while his mobile charged up. He found her in the kitchen.

  “Tell me, what’s happening? Have you found Alice Nahri?” she said.

  “You sound weary,” Peter said.

  “Just back at work, that’s all.”

  “Are you going to the cottage anytime this week?”

  “Tomorrow, I think . . . Yes, Joan’s off to Birmingham.” There was an implication there that Peter should call his wife.

  Peter reported the salient features of his D.C. visit. “Alice is alive.”

  Maddy in turn gave a full account of the trip to Henley.

  “Could you do something for me, dear?” he said. He wanted to say “for us.”

  “Yes, certainly.”

  “Phone the All Saints Church in New Bosk in Lincolnshire and see if the Carpenter funeral has been scheduled.”

  “Won’t it have happened? I thought the family was demanding the body back as soon as possible.”

  “I’ll explain when I get back.”

  “Which is when?”

  “I hope to get a ticket out tonight. Arrive the following morning.”

  “Wait a minute, Dad. I’ve got it . . . The John Carpenter funeral is set for tomorrow, early afternoon. According to the church website.”

  He marvelled at her facility with the internet. “Okay, here’s what I’ll do. I will try for a flight tonight and if you are available, we’ll drive from the airport to New Bosk.”

  “Done and done,” Maddy said. “See you at Heathrow.”

  Peter reached Deroche at the end of one of his all-night stakeouts.

  “Greenwell hasn’t confessed, but I will keep you informed, Peter,” Deroche said, his voice weary. “Give me your coordinates in England and I’ll report regularly.”

  “That’s good of you, Sylvain.”

  “No, Peter, I owe you. The next time I go out on a stakeout of the Rizzutos, you’re invited. By the way, I’m meeting with Monsieur Malloway this morning. Does that mean you’re no longer on the case?”

  “I’ll keep my hand in, and I’ll share everything with you, Sylvain.”

  “That’s what I hoped you would say.”

  “I have another favour to ask.”

  “Shoot.”

  “Don’t tell Malloway we talked.”

  Deroche guffawed. “Sure. And everything I share with him I will share with you first.”

  Peter waited another hour and called Henry Pastern.

  “It’s good to hear from you,” Henry said, from somewhere in the J. Edgar Hoover Building. “Back in the U.K.?”

  “Actually, back in Montreal,” Peter said.

  “Alrighty.”

  “Henry, I’m cleaning up loose ends. I . . .”

  “Are you staying on the case, Peter? I hope you are.”

  Peter appreciated the special agent’s directness. “I’ve been replaced, Henry. As liaison, that is. But you already know that, right?”

  “I’m aware. Dunning Malloway contacted me yesterday.”

  “What did you think of the letters?”

  “My learning curve on the Civil War is a bit steep. The letters sound real but we have to ve
rify the text before we expand the search. I haven’t put them on the international list yet.”

  “How are the warrants for Alice Nahri going?”

  “Out there yesterday. Our Legal Department took its sweet time. A minor glitch: we still haven’t identified the girl in the river. Federal judges don’t like to issue countrywide, federal murder warrants when the victim hasn’t been named. I asked Ehrlich to package the victim’s clothes and the Metro vice squad is working on the ID. We all agree she’s a local hooker. Metro isn’t too happy that the Bureau’s asserting itself in this case, but as soon as I mentioned the suspect was born in India, my local counterpart made it clear that D.C. Metro doesn’t need that kind of grief. They’ll cooperate to the full, but it’s our baby.”

  “It’s your baby. Good for you. You’ve been busy,” Peter said. It took fortitude for Pastern to call Ehrlich again, whose cutting room he had sullied with vomit.

  “Alice hasn’t used the credit card. We searched every drainpipe and trash bin in that end of D.C. for the GPS but found squat.” Henry’s voice trailed off.

  Henry must have been attuned to Peter’s preoccupation with the girl, for he said, “Peter?”

  “Yeah?”

  “If we arrest Alice, I’ll call you first.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Thank you again for the letters. Oh, by the way, there’s an expert on assassination lore, lives in the Chesapeake area. Now that I have the draft letters, I’ll put him on standby. His name is Lembridge.”

  Peter wasn’t quite finished stirring the pot. Using Renaud’s computer, he sent a long email to Special Commissioner Souma of the Indian security service. He requested a data bundle covering passport applications filed throughout India for the previous three years, females only. He added further parameters to narrow the search. Finally, he asked Souma to send the information to Peter’s home email address, without copying London.

  CHAPTER 27

  If the book dealer intended to turn himself in, he missed his chance, for one of Inspector Deroche’s men had been checking Greenwell’s shop twice a day and nabbed him as he opened the front door. Leander Greenwell feared the police, which was not unusual among older gay men, but his initial alarm when the detective clamped his hand over the door key was tempered by astonishment that the authorities had failed to find him earlier. Over a period of two weeks he had been on the lam through four provinces and a half dozen borrowed rooms, none of them qualifying as a safe house. Leander took advantage of a brotherhood of dealers and conservators whom the police could have identified from phone records, had they made the effort. He ranged from a friend’s above-store apartment in northern Ontario to a chalet in Nova Scotia to a farm in Quebec’s Eastern Townships. He stopped at the family cottage in New Brunswick to pick up some clothes and a telephone Rolodex he kept in a cupboard. When he heard later from his cousin that the RCMP had visited the cottage, he decided to return to Montreal and organize his affairs before turning himself in. But Deroche’s man put him in handcuffs on the spot and threw him into a cold cell in the Bordeaux Prison before he could call Georges.