Joseph Avacomovitch had worked right through the night. By 9:45 that morning he had determined that the two black threads from the bramble bush were synthetic nylon fibers from a fairly new water-repellent garment. The red fiber, however, was natural and he suspected that it was a twilled worsted or woollen material. To take his assessment further he would need some laser equipment. He had arranged for access to such machinery later on in the day. It was time to take a break.
That morning as Joseph Avacomovitch left the RCMP laboratory a thought picked at his mind.
For that red thread looked a lot like the color of red serge. Red serge is the fabric used to make the RCMP scarlet tunic.
Politics
10:45 a.m.
He recognized her at once.
For though her hair was now black instead of auburn and she was with another man, a woman like Genevieve DeClercq does not slip from the mind. The moment that she walked into the restaurant, Joseph Avacomovitch looked up from his meal and instantly connected her with the photograph on the corner of the Superintendent's desk. He watched them take a table on the far side of the room.
On leaving the laboratory the Russian had suddenly felt hungry. It had been at least twelve hours since his last meal — and besides he wanted to think. What was concerning him was the fear there had been a screw-up. He was worried that perhaps one of the several dozen Members at the site of Natasha Wilkes' killing had broken the cardinal rule about preserving a crime scene and had snagged his or her red serge tunic while tracing the route that the body had tumbled by climbing up to the trail. With time of the essence Avacomovitch did not relish wasting hours analyzing a red herring.
At the back of his mind, however, he had another thought: What if the killer did leave the thread? And what if it is red serge?
The restaurant was crowded. Avacomovitch had never dined here before, but DeClercq had mentioned to him once that it served the best eggs in town. As the scientist enjoyed a good omelette he had decided to give it a try. It was as he was finishing off his meal that Genevieve and the other man came through the door.
For a while the Russian toyed with the idea of crossing the room to their table and introducing himself. He nodded to the waiter and motioned for the check. Then he sat there unnoticed, watching Genevieve. She was without a doubt one of the most vivacious and animated women that he had ever encountered. Occasionally as she talked with the man, perhaps to emphasize a point, she would reach across the table top and touch him lightly on the arm. At the moment the waiter came to take their order she crossed her legs and a slit in her long skirt parted. Avacomovitch caught himself eyeing the sweep of her leg and thigh.
Once more he thought of his friend DeClercq and turned his gaze away. In that moment he made two very quick decisions. One was that he would not tell the Superintendent of this encounter. DeClercq had problems already. And the other was that he would not walk across this room. For what bothered him in what he saw was not so much Genevieve: it was the man whom she was with. The Russian knew in the back of his mind that he had seen the fellow before, though just where he could not place. What he could put in perspective, however, was the look in this man's eyes.
He's in love with her, Avacomovitch thought. Then he paid for the meal and left.
3:02 p.m.
Politics, Chartrand thought with disgust as he hung up the telephone. All for expediency.
The Commissioner had taken the call from the Solicitor General, Edward Fitzgerald, in DeClercq's office at Headhunter Headquarters. The Opposition, it seemed, had been roasting the Government once more about the lack of progress in the Vancouver case. It had not helped matters any when both the CBC and CTV television networks had shown footage on the news of several thousand candle-carrying citizens holding a vigil outside this very building all through the night. The Prime Minister himself had told Fitzgerald to make the call.
"Look, Francois," the Solicitor General had said, "we're not playing tiddlywinks. This situation's explosive. Something must be done."
"Edward, I have been right through DeClercq's investigation. Believe me this Force is doing everything in its power to bring this to an end."
"I'm well aware of that. Francois. I'm not talking about what goes on beneath the surface. I'm talking about public consumption. A bone to throw to the masses. Keep them quiet a while."
"What sort of bone do you mean?"
"I'm beginning to get reports about this fellow DeClercq.”
"What sort of reports?"
"Lawyers are screaming all over the place about their clients' rights being trampled under this so-called sweep. Some people are also saying that the man does not look well. Francois, a man who doesn't look fit can't go before the cameras. And if he's not good media what use is he to us? We're selling confidence here, plain and simple."
"Edward, I'm not selling anything. I'm trying to catch a killer. DeClercq's the best we've got."
"So he still works the case. Put someone else in charge." "I can't do that." "Well, I'm afraid you'll have to." For a moment there was a silence on the phone. "What does that mean, Edward?"
"It means that something must be seen to be done. That we must look like we're going forward." "And what are you suggesting?" "That you personally take charge." Again there was silence. Chartrand looked out the window at the hospital across the street. He reached for a cigarette. Finally he stated: "Do I have any choice?" "Just in the timing."
"Then give me at least a day and a half to get matters organized."
"Too long. The case is just too hot." "One day then. There's a lot to do before the press comes down."
"All right. One day. But not a second longer." "One day. But Edward…"
"Sorry, Francois. But that's the way it goes. This fellow DeClercq. The PM wants him pulled."
After Chartrand hung up the telephone he lit the cigarette. And as he did so he thought: Robert, old friend. I do hope you're relaxing. One day is all you've got.
3:20 p.m.
DeClercq had neither shaved nor had he eaten.
He walked over to the liquor cabinet and opened one of the doors. Most of the bottles that it contained were nearly full, a testimonial to how little he and Genevieve drank. At the back of the bottom shelf there was a bottle of Camus Napoleon
Cognac. He removed the bottle and found a glass and then went down to the sea.
Drink in hand he sat there, thinking of his daughter.
3:35 p.m.
"Still nothing?" Scarlett asked.
"Nothing," Tipple said.
The van was parked so that its rear doors could not be seen from the recording studio half a block down the street. Scarlett had come down a side street that met 12th Avenue in a T. When he climbed into the rear of the truck he saw Katherine Spann asleep on a cot behind the driver's seat.