by Peter Kirby
“We’ll find her,” Vanier said.
“If she’s missing, I don’t think this is good.” He withdrew back from the crack. “I’m sorry. I can’t help.” He took another step back, slowly closing the door, as though ready to stop if they forbade it. They didn’t.
Reynolds turned to Vanier. “Philippe played violin for the St. Petersburg Philharmonic. But he’s gay, and sick. AIDS. Not a popular combination in Putin’s Russia. Of course, Canada refused his application for refugee status. Said he would not be in any danger if he were sent back to Russia.”
Nobody answered at the second door, and Reynolds opened it with his key. The room was empty.
“I’ll talk to him later. I’ll let you know if he’s got anything useful.”
The third door opened even before they got there and a short, muscled African man stared at them through thick glasses. Vanier tried not to stare. The man’s ears weren’t big, but they stuck straight out of his head.
“I saw the men who did that. Who were in Sophia’s room. I saw them through the hole.” He gestured to a spy hole in the door. “I put that in myself. For safety.”
He turned his head, alternating between Vanier and Reynolds, as though he had no peripheral vision. When Saint Jacques arrived up the hallway he almost turned his whole body.
He looked back to Reynolds. “Police?”
“Yes, police. But don’t worry, Sékou. Nothing to do with immigration. Your neighbour Sophia has disappeared. Mr. Vanier and his partner are looking for her. They are helping.” He turned to Vanier. “This is Sékou Camara. He’s from West Africa. Guinea.”
“She was scared these last days. First she was okay, like everything was going to be fixed. We talked. She is a very good person. I thought she was just scared like all of us. You know, just ordinary scared.”
“Can we come in?” Vanier asked.
Camara backed into the room and the three of them followed.
Camara’s room had the look of a train station waiting room after the last train has left, a place suspended. The single bed was made up, and two suitcases stood beside it. A mug sat on a plate on the countertop next to the sink, with a knife, fork and spoon standing in it. Vanier was willing to bet the cupboards and drawers were empty. There was a yellow nylon rope, knotted at intervals, coiled on the floor under the window, one end tied to the radiator.
The man saw Vanier looking at the rope. “I’ve been running for a long time. You always need an escape route. One is good, but the more the better.”
The rope was ready to be dropped out the window. He could probably leave with his suitcases anytime and you’d never know he had ever been there.
The only place to sit was a wooden chair pushed up against a small desk and the bed. Saint Jacques pulled the chair out and sat down. Reynolds and Camara sat on the bed, and Vanier leaned against a wall, then slid down into a crouch.
Camara reached down and pulled the zipper back a few inches on one of the suitcases. He reached in and grabbed a plastic bag of tangerines. Then he took the bag over to the counter and quickly peeled four tangerines, putting them on the plate and handing the plate to Saint Jacques.
“Please. Share these with your colleague.” He went back to the bed and sat down.
“Mr. Camara, you said you saw the men who went to Sophia’s room. Could you tell me about that?”
“It was last night. When you are hiding like me, you get to recognize footsteps. Official footsteps. You know the kind that can’t be quiet, or don’t need to be. About six o’clock last night I heard them coming up the steps. I was looking at the door before they were in the hallway. I thought, maybe they were looking for me.”
He pointed to the door. There were two sets of chains on it, and a steel lock that allowed him to prop a bar against the door when he was inside. If anyone had been looking for him, he would have had plenty of time to escape through the window before they made it through the door.
“They went straight to Sophia’s room. They were in there for maybe half an hour. Two men. Both very big.”
Vanier was thinking that just about everyone Camara met would fit the description of very big.
Camara seemed to pick up on Vanier’s thought. “Bigger than me, of course, but big.”
“You’re sure?”
“I don’t see that good around the edges, but through the peephole, looking straight, I see pretty good.”
“And what did they look like? Apart from big.”
“One looks like a business man, you know? Suit and a tie. The other guy, he looked like he was going to play football.”
“You mean soccer?” asked Saint Jacques.
“Yes. Football. But not a football uniform. More for training.”
“Track suit?” said Vanier.
“That’s it. Track suit. Adidas. And a baseball hat.”
“You ever see these guys before?” said Vanier.
“No. That’s all I saw. I can’t tell you anything else. They come here, go into Sophia’s room. They stay for about half an hour and leave. I only see them for a few seconds. Once when they go in and once when they leave. I don’t see faces. It was too quick.”
Vanier sensed he was backing away, not wanting to get involved. The African looked at Reynolds. “I think I need to move.”
Reynolds thought for a few moments. “We’ll see about it, Sékou.” He turned back to Vanier. “You think there’s a danger for the others?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think so. But until we know what’s going on, your guess is as good as mine.”
Vanier had Saint Jacques take Camara through the story again in the hope that something else would come out, but it was the same. At six o’clock two men had gone by in the hallway. He was sure they had gone into Luna’s room and they left about half an hour later. One was in a business suit, the other in an Adidas track suit with a baseball cap. He didn’t see their faces.
Vanier was sure Camara was holding back, but there was nothing he could do, not with two witnesses in the room.
As he was standing to leave, Vanier’s phone went off. He looked at the screen, Sarah Delaney. He let it go to voice mail.
In the car, they waited while Reynolds pulled away. Vanier switched on the engine.
“Who called?” said Saint Jacques.
“Delaney. I’ll drop you back to headquarters and call her then.”
Before he could pull away from the curb, his phone rang again. He looked at the screen and put it back in his pocket, letting it ring until it eventually went to voice mail.
“Delaney?”
“No. Personal.”
“You know that you can send calls straight to voice mail, right? You don’t need to let it ring six times.”
He looked at her. He was constantly amazed at how many people assumed that he was technologically inept. “It’s rude. The caller will know you could have answered but didn’t.”
Saint Jacques smiled. “A man of etiquette.”
“No point in being rude if you don’t have to.”
It took ten minutes to drive back to headquarters. At seven-thirty it was still warm. The streets were filled with people out wandering for no better reason than to get as much of summer as possible. Every restaurant and bar had makeshift terraces on the sidewalk, and they were all full. Vanier started thinking of supper. A cold beer and a decent meal on a terrace was looking good.
After Saint Jacques drove off in her own car, Vanier pulled out his phone to check the missed calls. He had three: Delaney, Laurent, and Anjili. They had all left messages, but it would take him as long to go through the voice-mail procedure as to just call them back. He started with Laurent. When the detective answered, Vanier could hear children in the background.
“I hope you’re having a barbecue.”
“Exactly. We’re out back.”
; “Well, enjoy. Enjoy the family.”
“I am. So, what’s up?”
“You called.”
“Yeah, but like I said in the message, there’s nothing yet. The Gazette said they will be able to tie the Luna cheques to a project, and then they’ll know who she was working with. They should have it tomorrow.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s all.”
Vanier felt guilty keeping him from his family. “Okay. So call me when you hear something.”
“For sure.”
Sarah Delaney answered immediately. “Thanks for calling back, Inspector.”
“No problem.”
“Two things. First, I’ve got the name of the translation company. I had forgotten that one of the cheques bounced. The bank sent it back to me. Sophie got a replacement, but I kept the bounced one.”
Vanier pulled at his notepad and leaned it on his leg, grabbed his pen. “And the name?”
“A. L. Translations Ltd.” She sounded like she was reading. She gave him an address in Lachine.
“That’s off the cheque?”
“Yes. The signature’s hard to read but it looks like Antoine Lepage, maybe Anthony.”
“Thanks. Could you hold on to the cheque? We may need it.”
“Of course. The other thing was that about a week ago I had a call for Sophia. I completely forgot because it seemed like nothing at the time.”
“How so?”
“It was just someone calling for her. They called my home number, the landline, and asked for Sophia. It was a man’s voice, very friendly. I said she wasn’t there but offered to take a message. He said no message but asked if I knew where she could be reached.”
Vanier heard a beeping sound that announced a second call coming in. He took the phone away from his ear and checked. It was Anjili. He resumed his conversation with Delaney. “So you said no. You didn’t know where she was?”
“Well, I didn’t know. And that was it. He said thanks and hung up. I guess that was why I completely forgot about it. It was so, well, normal.”
“Thanks for this, Ms. Delaney.”
“Call me Sarah. Please.”
Vanier was about to hang up. “One last thing, Ms. Delaney. Sorry, Sarah. Could you ask Bell or whoever your phone company is to give you the number? Maybe ask them for all the numbers that called yours in the last two weeks.”
She agreed. She would call Vanier when she got the information.
Vanier was nervous about the third call, dreading another day of condo hunting. He knew that he would eventually break down and agree to something, anything, just to avoid having to keep looking. He punched one on his speed dial and waited. It rang several times.
Anjili picked up. “And there he is,” she said. “He hasn’t left the planet.”
“How are you doing?”
“Better than you, I imagine. I actually sleep at night.”
“I’m going to sleep tonight. Catch up. It’s been busy. Going to get something to eat and head home. Want to join me?”
“It’s too late tonight, but what are you doing Thursday?”
He thought of condos. “What time Thursday?”
“Evening. If we’re efficient, we could do three or four visits.”
Vanier said nothing.
“Just kidding. How do you feel about a picnic in the park?”
Vanier smiled. “Seriously? That’s the best idea you’ve had in ages.”
“You’re saying I don’t have good ideas?”
“I’m saying, of all the good ideas you have, and there are lots, this is the best.”
They made the arrangements. He would get the chicken and the wine and she would supply everything else. He would call when he got to her place, and she would come down.
“You get distracted when you come up, and we’d never get to the picnic.”
“I’m distracted already.”
“Just stay in the car and I’ll come down.”
Eight
Vanier and Saint Jacques were sitting in Vanier’s car outside a high-rise apartment building in Lachine.
“Maybe it’s not the right address,” Vanier said.
Saint Jacques was staring at the door. “It’s the one you gave me, and it’s the same as the one on the website. He must work from home.”
Vanier climbed out of the car. “The new normal. Everyone’s self-employed because nobody wants employees. That way you never have to fire anyone or lay them off, just stop giving them work. So what do we know about this outfit?”
“It’s a small translation company, A. L. Translations. I assume it stands for Antoine Lepage. He’s the owner.”
“That’s original.”
Saint Jacques was reading from her notebook as they walked. “It’s been in business for ten years. Lepage is the sole owner, and there are no employees. According to what I could find, the company makes a couple of thousand a year.”
“That’s it? You can’t live on that.”
“That’s the profit. He probably pays himself a salary. The profit is what’s left over. Enough to keep the taxman happy.”
“But he’s not getting rich.”
“He’s a translator, boss. Translators don’t get rich.”
They walked into the lobby, and Saint Jacques pressed the button for apartment 301. “It’s listed as Suite 301 on the website,” she said.
“Fancy.”
The voice box on the wall burst into life. “Hello? C’est qui?”
Vanier bent towards the box. “It’s the police, Mr. Lepage. We’d like to talk to you.”
There was a hesitation. “Give me two minutes. I’ll come down.”
“No. Buzz us in and we’ll come up.”
Vanier counted to three. The voice box squawked. “Okay.”
A buzzer sounded, and Saint Jacques pulled the door open.
They took the elevator to the tenth floor. Vanier knocked on the door. When nothing happened he knocked again, louder. Then the door opened wide, and a cloud of cigarette smoke passed over them. Lepage stood in the doorway in a neon green T-shirt, striped boxers, and the brain-dead grin of a frat boy on a bender. His pupils were dilated. He stepped back and ushered them in. The apartment was steaming hot and smelled of pot, stale beer, and pizza. He seemed to have made an effort to clean up, and empty pizza boxes and take-out trays were piled up on the kitchen counter next to a collection of empties. The picture windows were closed, and the air conditioning was off. The air was fetid, a mixture of stale food and body odour.
He gestured for them to sit on the sofa. “Excuse the mess. I don’t get many visitors.”
Walking past him, Vanier recognized the whiskey breath. Vanier kept walking, past the sofa and over to the window. He unlatched it and slid it across so that air could come in. It didn’t seem to make a difference.
“You know, that’s always the first thing my mother does when she visits. She always opens the window.”
“Mothers know stuff,” Vanier said, and joined Saint Jacques on the sofa. Lepage dropped into the armchair. The glass-topped table between them was decorated with different-sized ring stains.
“So what can I do for you?” Lepage managed.
“We’re looking into the disappearance of Sophia Luna.”
The grin disappeared. “Sophia? I haven’t seen her in two months, at least. But if you find her, tell her she caused me a lot of trouble.”
“How so?” said Vanier.
“She fucked up, and I nearly lost a great client. I gave her a real simple job to do for Essence. You know Essence, right?”
“Big engineering company, right?” said Saint Jacques.
“Yeah. That’s them. It was a small job. Just a simple contract to translate into Spanish. Five pages, that’s all. She did it in a day, and I f
lipped it back to the client. That’s it, until a week ago. I get a call from the client. He says he needs to talk to the translator. He says there was a lot wrong with the translation and he wanted to get it fixed.”
“Who called? What was his name?” said Saint Jacques.
“I don’t know. Normally, the only one I speak to at Essence is Lynn, Lynn Gagnon. She’s the one who gives out the translation work. But this was a guy. He mumbled a name, but I didn’t write it down. I only spoke to him once.”
“And you gave him what he was looking for?”
“Yes. I gave him Sophia’s name and the address.”
“When was this?” Vanier asked.
“Like I said, a week or maybe ten days ago.”
“We’ll need a number for Lynn Gagnon, and the address. What address did you give them for Sophia?”
“I’ll have to look it up.” He reached under the armchair and pulled out a laptop. “But don’t worry, keep asking the questions. I can multi-task.” He bent his head to look at the screen and started typing. Suddenly he looked up. It was as though a light had gone on, like he was coming back to life.
“Just a second. You can’t tell Lynn that you got this information from me. There’s such a thing as client confidentiality, isn’t there?”
“It’s a bit late for that, Mr. Lepage,” said Vanier.
“But no. I mean, shit, business is bad enough. They’re already pissed at me. Can’t you work around it somehow?”
“Let’s finish the interview first. You help us and we’ll see what we can do to keep you out of things.”
Lepage shifted forward in the chair.
“Please. It’s important.”
“So tell us about the translation.”
“Essence needed a contract translated from English to Spanish. And they wanted it quick. I remember that. Sophia is a freelancer that I use sometimes. Her previous work was good, people liked it. No complaints. So I emailed her the contract, and a day later, I got the translation back. I sent it to the client and that was it. Sent the invoice, got paid, and sent a cheque to her.”
