Peter Kirby - The Dead of Winter

She giggled like the child she no longer was. And then there was silence. He could hear her breathing. He listened, wanting the moment to last, enjoying the unconscious communication of love. Words would break it so he said nothing. Eventually, she stirred.

“I got your present. I love getting parcels in the mail.”

“I hope you like it.”

“I’m sure I will, Papa. I haven’t opened it yet.” He knew it was probably in her room, out of the way, not to disturb Marianne with a sign of his presence. Elise would open it when she had time to herself.

“Will you let me know what you think? It’s only a small thing.”

“I’m sure it’s wonderful.”

There was a silence. Then, “So, Papa, have you heard from Alex?”

The moment was broken, and the tension flooded in.

“Not yet, Elise. I’ve booked a call for tomorrow. It’s hard to get to speak to him, but he told me that you guys email each other.”

“Yeah. He emails me all the time, and we talk on Skype. You should get yourself set up on Skype. It’s easy, I’ll show you how next time I’m in Montreal. Alex would like that, I know he would.”

He knew it would be a while before she was next in Montreal. Maybe in the summer, but he couldn’t ask. She would take that question as pressure.

“That would be great, Elise. How does he sound to you?”

“It’s tough in Kandahar. But he seems to be holding up. It’s like he’s found his place in the Van Doos. He’s assigned to protect the Provincial Reconstruction Team, that’s what he calls it. Says he’s doing good work too. But it’s dangerous. I think of him all the time.”

“So do I, Elise, so do I.”

“So, when you speak to him tomorrow, wish him Merry Christmas from me. And be easy on him, Papa. I know that you guys fight sometimes but he loves you, Papa, just like me.”

“I know, Elise, I know. I am a lucky man.”

“So, Papa. Merry Christmas. Je t’aime.”

“And I love you too, ma belle. Come back to Montreal soon. Merry Christmas.”

“Yeah. I love you too, Papa. Joyeux Noel.”

“Joyeux Noel, ma belle.”

With a click the phone went dead, and Vanier stared at the floor. The single thing that he wanted to do on Christmas Day, and it was done. He looked at the clock. 8.40.

He rose stiffly from the couch and walked to the bathroom, replaying the conversation in his head.

11.15 AM

The Metro Security Headquarters consists of a small series of windowless offices deep under the street in the Berri Metro station. Vanier pulled the door open and walked in, already impatient with the diplomatic burden of not stepping on toes. Most people, even policemen, bristle at the sight of metro officers. They don’t carry guns, and they make up for that inadequacy with intimidating swat-team uniforms, complete with bulletproof vests and the swagger of schoolyard bullies. But when below ground in their system, even cops have to show them respect.

An officer approached Vanier and introduced himself with an outstretched hand. He was dressed like he was going to lead a Special Forces team to take out a bunch of terrorists.

“Inspector Vanier, it’s wonderful to see you again. Inspector Morneau, Metro Security.”

Morneau flashed a white-toothed smile that was more formal than friendly, and Vanier racked his brain to remember where the hell he had seen him before.

“Inspector Morneau, good of you to come out on Christmas morning.”

“Thank you, Inspector. We’re taking this very seriously. We must get it cleaned up as soon as possible.”

“It not easy to clean up five bodies, Inspector. It’s not like litter.”

Morneau didn’t notice the rebuke. “Your Detective Sergeant St. Jacques has already been here for some time,” he said, gesturing to the back of the office. Vanier followed the gesture and saw Sylvie St. Jacques looking over the shoulder of a computer operator at a bank of TV screens. She was wearing black pants and a thick sweater and had the aura of someone tightly coiled but in control. She smiled up at Vanier as he approached, beckoning with her hand as if to get him to move more quickly.

“Take a look at this, sir,” she said. “Victim number four in the station at 8.30 last night.”

Vanier looked at the screen she was pointing to. There was a bag lady in a heavy dark coat shuffling down the platform with two large bags in each hand and two smaller ones tied to her belt. She kept her head down as she moved forward to a bench and sat down, arranging the bags around her feet. Then she leaned back against the wall and was still.

“She sits there for half an hour without moving, and nobody so much as looks at her. People wait for trains, get on them and leave or get off and leave. And it’s like she isn’t there. They all walk around her. Now, fast forward to 9.05.”

Vanier watched as the image jumped and then stilled, with 21:05 printed in the bottom left hand corner of the screen.

“Just here, sir. Look.”

On the screen, the unmistakable figure of Santa Claus appeared from the platform entrance, complete with a white beard and a bag slung over his shoulder. He looked up and down the platform and then walked directly up to the bag lady, put his bag down beside her, and leaned forward, seeming to whisper to her.

They watched as she raised her head and then her arms as if to welcome Santa. He reached into his sack and pulled out something in the shape of a fire log and handed it to her. She took it and held it for a moment before smiling up at him again. Vanier wondered if she recognized him, or was simply happy to see Santa Claus.

“Now watch this, sir.”

In the grainy black and white image, Santa leaned in even closer to the woman, held her chin and kissed the top of her head.

St. Jacques counted, “One, two, three, four, five. Five seconds, sir. He held the kiss for five seconds!”

Breaking the kiss, Santa stroked the old lady’s hair and, again, seemed to whisper something to her. Then he picked up his sack and started back along the platform. Before he turned into the platform exit, he stopped and lifted his arm in a farewell wave to the bag lady. Then he was gone.

“We have him going up the escalator and out the door onto St. Catherine Street. Then we have nothing more until 10 p.m.,” said St. Jacques.

The operator skipped the tape forward to 22:00, and the image showed the bag lady slowly rise to her feet and put Santa’s gift in one of her bags. Then she pulled them all up and began shuffling along the platform, away from the entrance.

“What did he give her?” asked Vanier, trying to understand what he had just seen.

“They found a brand new woolen throw with her, the sort you can find anywhere. Probably useful to keep you warm if you’re sleeping rough. Rolled up tight, it could be the gift.”

“Anything else from the CC cameras?”

“That’s all we have for the moment, but we’ve lots to review. M. Savard here has been a lot of help.” She put her hand on the operator’s shoulder and he swiveled around in his chair to face the pair, a huge grin on his face. He was enjoying working with St. Jacques.

“I’ll let you get on with it, then. I want every image of Santa that we can get. See if we can get a face shot. And get Santa’s timing down; time in, time out.”

“What about the Santa suit, sir? Maybe it’s a rental.”

“Right. Have someone contact the owners of every rental shop in town; there can’t be that many. Let’s get the names and addresses of everyone who rented a Santa suit. I don’t care if it is Christmas morning.”

St. Jacques was writing things down. “I’ll get onto it but there aren’t many people about today. Everyone is off.”