Charron was in precisely the same spot he had been when the first call to the Henry household arrived more than twelve hours before. This time it was his wife who awakened him. She had removed the phone from the bedroom, hoping he would be able to get at least a couple of hours sleep. It wasn’t to be.
“The kidnappers’ call just came in,” she told him. “There’s a recording with instructions in a mail box in front of 64 Torbolton. It’s Sergeant Tremblay on the line.”
Charron listened intently to a recording of the call then began issuing instructions.
“We’re going to do what they tell us. You remain in the “chateau”. Have Ryde bring Grant to...” the inspector paused a moment, fixing the location in his mind. “...Torbolton and Tache. That’s about two blocks from the mailbox. Tell Inspector Boisvert I’ll meet him there in about fifteen minutes, as soon as I can get the area cordoned off.”
“God knows why I’m sealing off the area,” he admitted to his wife a few minutes later, as she hovered over him insisting he eat some toast. “You can be sure the bastards are long gone, but you never know for sure do you?”
Boisvert was waiting for Charron at the intersection. They briefly debated the wisdom of having Grant retrieve the recording, but agreed it was probably best to follow the caller’s instructions. “Besides,” added Boisvert, “I’m still convinced this radio son of a bitch knows something more than he’s telling us. I want to watch every move he makes.”
2:01 PM • DAY ONE
There was nothing to distinguish the rack of postal boxes, which stood in front of 64 Torbolton, except one of them: 1B had a broken lock. The heavy metal door swung open easily. Inside was a plain white envelope, bulky with its contents. Following Boisvert’s instructions, Grant grasped it carefully by one corner, slipped it into a plastic bag and hurried away, casting nervous glances at the building nearby.
To Grant and Carol, the drive from the Torbolton Street mailbox to the RCMP crime lab near the prime minister’s residence in Rockcliffe Park Village seemed interminable.
“It must be a cassette in the envelope,” begged Carol, “why can’t we play it now on the car’s stereo?”
But Boisvert was adamant. “We can’t risk the chance of putting even the slightest scratch on the tape. Right now this is the most important piece of evidence we have; erase some of it, or damage it in any way, Madame, and we will all very much regret it. Besides which, it must be fingerprinted.”
The rest of the trip passed in silence. Boisvert sat rigid in the front seat, ignoring Grant’s presence.
2:19 PM • DAY ONE
It was a different voice on the tape. Not at all like the one on the telephone. The accent was barely discernable; strange, indefinable.
Cold, cruel and precise, the voice began to read what was obviously a carefully prepared script:
“The date is October twelve. I command the army for the independence of Quebec. We have captured the daughter of Mr. Grant Henry and are holding her hostage until the government of Canada grants freedom and independence to the sovereign state of Quebec. The recent referendum, during which the people of Quebec narrowly voted to remain within confederation, was not a true expression of the sentiment of that province, but rather the consequence of the campaign of fear and lies spread by the federal government and the monied elite of Quebec who threatened such punitive economic measures as to reduce any new republic to pauperdom. The same enemies of Quebec who bribed Canadians to attend a rally in Montreal on the eve of the referendum in their self-serving attempt to interfere with Quebec’s right of self-determination.
“We have informed the police and Mr. Henry that should this tape recording not be played on Mr. Henry’s show this evening at exactly eight o’clock, his daughter will come to great harm.”
The voice changed pitch slightly, the pace quickening.
“In our organization, as in any other of this nature, are certain individuals for whom a young, inexperienced female provokes considerable curiosity. Until now, I have been able to control their rather inquisitive and boisterous natures, but a display of anything other than zealous co-operation would make my task in this regard extremely difficult...perhaps impossible.
“As a sign of that co-operation and as an initial step towards Quebec independence, all foreign flags, by that I mean all Canadian flags, must be removed from federal buildings in the Province of Quebec by noon tomorrow, October thirteen.
“We will issue further instructions via this radio program each evening at eight. Should the people of Canada fail to hear from us any evening during the week in this fashion, they must know that a decision was made by the English speaking authorities to allow a twelve-year-old girl to die a very uncomfortable death. They should also know that if this should happen, other similarly unpleasant deaths will occur within the English speaking population of Quebec until independence is achieved in a fair and equitable manner.
“In the unlikely event that certain individuals should question the wisdom, or even the legality of complying with demands of this type, I draw your attention to the fact that, in an attempt to spare the lives of kidnapped hostages during October of 1970, demands of the FLQ were broadcast over a number of Quebec radio stations. A precedent has thus already been established in an attempt to spare a Francophone and a British life. Surely no one would suggest that similar attempts should not be made in an effort to spare the life of an English speaking Canadian child, unless of course, the lives of English speaking Quebeckers are not deemed as important as those of a French speaking Quebecker or a British diplomat.
“Verbatim transcripts of these broadcasts will be provided to all wire services in Canada, so that all Canadians will be able to judge for themselves if any part of the recordings have been deleted or abridged.
“Now Mr. Henry, I presume you and your loyal listeners would like to hear from your daughter.”
There was a pause on the tape, a few clicking noises, then a frightened little voice.
“Daddy, Daddy, they’ve taken all my clothes off...they’re looking at me. Don’t let them hurt me, Daddy. Please, don’t let them hurt me!” A click and that voice again. “Tune again tomorrow—some time—same place!”
Freeport, Grand Bahama 2:44 PM • DAY ONE
Sandra Beale was having what she usually described as a “difficult day.” It was probably the weather. A late afternoon storm had blown in from the Caribbean. As frequently happens in the Bahamas, the skies, in a matter of minutes, had mutated from bright, hot sun to ominous, black clouds. A freshening wind pounded the ocean onto the broad expanse of beach, which lay a few yards away, at the foot of her lawn.
It was the kind of weather Tommy had loved. On days like this she could still see him, astride their violently pitching boat, racing joyfully out to sea to challenge an approaching hurricane. Thomas Beale, President of Beale Broadcasting Ltd., self-made millionaire, loving husband of Sandra, lord of the ocean, almost blinded by the wind, the spray and the rain, throwing his fist into the air and screaming at the top of his lungs:
“Fuck the hurricane!”
A
