happened? Where is she? Is there any word of Lee? What about Lee? Can I talk with Therese? Does she know where Lee is?
“Unfortunately,” explained Charron calmly, as he entered the room, “the housekeeper knows very little. She was found wandering near the abandoned railway tracks east of Poisson Blanc only about an hour ago. She was pretty badly disoriented, but otherwise unhurt. I’m sorry to say,” sighed Charron, “she seems to know virtually nothing of what happened, either to her or your daughter. According to her...” He checked some notes. “Shortly before ten last night (she remembered that the CBC news was just starting), she responded to the doorbell and stepped outside when no one appeared to be there. Something, a bag or a large cloth or a blanket, was dropped over her head. She remembers a brief instant of a very strong smell but nothing more until awakening sometime this morning lying at the side of the railway tracks.”
He went on to explain that she was in hospital for observation but Inspector Boisvert, who had questioned her for some time, was confident she would be of no assistance in their investigation. She hadn’t seen anyone, nor heard a thing other than the doorbell.
Charron’s recital of events was interrupted by the ring of the phone, which sent a shot of adrenalin rushing up from the pit of Grant’s stomach. The kidnappers? No. Carol just arrived at the airport, a twenty-minute drive south of Ottawa. As reassuringly as he could, Grant explained that Lee still had not been found. “No,” he told her, “the kidnappers have not been heard from and yes, you are welcome to come and stay in the “chateau” for the time being.”
A moment later it was Jake on the phone.
“The chief gave me a twenty-minute lecture about not sticking my nose into someone else’s business and tacked on a two-week suspension,” he told Grant. “Hey don’t worry about it pal, I need the holiday, besides which, in good old public service style, the suspension is with pay. Not too shabby eh? Listen, I’m packing a few things. I’m coming up and I’m moving in. Any objections?” Before Grant had a chance to reply, Jake continued, “I didn’t get a chance to talk to you earlier, but whatever you do, don’t say anything to that little chicken faced bastard. He seems to believe we’ve got something to do with this, which indicates, along with everything else, he’s got the I.Q. of a gerbil. I hope you didn’t tell him about the recording you got.”
“No,” said Grant thoughtfully, “but the little bastard knows I’m holding something back. I don’t think he’s dumb at all.”
“Just ugly,” said Jake.
“No,” said Grant, “ugly and mean.”
12:00 Noon • DAY ONE
The house was strangely still. Charron had acquired use of the RCMP crime lab in Ottawa on the assumption that international terrorism might be involved. Both he and Boisvert were probably already at the lab with the evidence they had been able to collect; the licence plate, the blood-stained cloth, the badly mangled bullet, Niki’s body and Lee’s hair. They also had the photographs they had taken and the contents of the vacuum used in Lee’s bedroom. Grant was not aware of it, but they had also vacuumed and photographed the interior of his car.
The two detectives who remained were idly drinking coffee in the dining room, glancing from time to time towards a small battery of tape recorders and phones scattered along the floor. Wires ran everywhere in a tangle to the telephone box in the basement.
In the odd stillness, which had settled over the house, Grant found himself straining to hear Lee’s happy, excited voice. He almost expected to see her skipping through the kitchen door or down the stairs. Once, he had to stop himself from calling excitedly out to her when a partridge she had faithfully fed during the past two winters fluttered down to the base of the crab apple tree whose branches caressed the living room window on windy days.
For the past half hour he had wandered aimlessly through the house, absently opening doors, staring blindly into rooms. Alone in the bathroom, he was shocked by the drawn, weary face in the mirror, eyes puffy and red, older than he remembered. And frightened.
Without warning, he burst into uncontrollable sobs as the unspeakable grief and pain knifed into him. He stumbled into Lee’s room, numbed and disconsolate, peering with tear-filled eyes into a closet, the clothes ghostly suggestions of her on their hangers, the still rumpled bed with its sprinkling of teddy bears. Looking closely he imagined he could see the imprint of her body. He picked up the book she had been reading when he left for the studio yesterday. Emily Bronte’s Wuthering Heights. Was it only last night that she had breathlessly confessed to him that she was falling desperately in love with Heathcliffe?
The room filled with a kind of thick and heavy darkness, dangerous and threatening. He was seized by an overwhelming urge to plunge down the stairs and escape into the bright sunlight, to run and run until exhausted. Charron though, had been insistent.
“You’ve got to stay in the house at all times. You can expect a phone call at any time from those who took your daughter. Whoever has done this terrible thing obviously knows the police will be here, and their conversations are being recorded, so you can expect them to disguise their voices on the phone and speak very briefly. As you know, there are devices available now which will distort the voice. Let them talk as much as possible. Agree to everything they say. Make sure you understand any instructions they give you, and whatever you do, don’t lose your cool. Stay calm, don’t get angry. You can ask if Lee is all right, they will expect that, but don’t demand to speak with her. No matter where Inspector Boisvert and I are, we’ll be notified immediately when any contact is made with the kidnappers. We can be here in half an hour. But listen, whatever you do, don’t take any action of any kind without us. And remember: Keep your friend Barr out of this. This is a Quebec matter.”
Grant had no intention of keeping Jake out of it. Boisvert’s obvious malice, and in particular his suspicion that he and Jake knew more than they were saying confirmed what Grant’s instincts had told him all along. Involving the Quebec police was a mistake. God only knew where their sympathies lay. They could not be trusted. A long buried fear was worming its way back to the surface. Who could be trusted?
Foreboding swept over him like a giant wave. Unable to escape the feeling, he paced from one side of the kitchen to the other, waiting for the call; dreading it, and praying for it.
1:19 PM • DAY ONE
When the call finally did come, they were all there. Grant still pacing, Jake unpacking in the basement bedroom and Carol weeping quietly at the kitchen table.
As instructed, Grant answered, trying to stay calm but unable to breathe properly. The voice was muffled, the French-Canadian accent unmistakable.
“Listen carefully Anglais. If you want to see your daughter alive again, you do exactly what I say. In front of 64 Torbolton Street in Hull is one of those big mailboxes with lots of little ones in it. 1B is not locked. Inside you will find a tape recording. You big hot shot Henry, you get it.” Then malicious and taunting... “Hey Mr. Big Mouth, your daughter, nice young stuff eh?” A click, and the voice was gone.
The colour drained from Grant’s face. His hand shook so violently he had difficulty replacing the receiver. Carol, pale and trembling beside him, had been unable to hear the conversation but was horrified at Grant’s reaction. Grasping him by both shoulders she shook him and shouted, “What did they say? Where is Lee? Is she all right?”
As calmly as possible, Grant explained.
Hull
