Peter Kirby
The Dead of Winter
PART ONE
ONE
DECEMBER 15
10 PM
Mary Gallagher was cold. She was drifting in and out of sleep on a concrete ledge beside the entrance to a parking garage, the fitful half-sleep that was all she had known for years. She had stuffed newspapers next to her skin under layers of clothing to ward off the cold, and her wool toque was pulled down low over her face. Cocooned in a sleeping bag she got from the Salvation Army three weeks before, and with only her mouth exposed to the damp night, she still shivered.
She sensed the approaching figure before he arrived. The concrete ledge was almost six feet off the ground, and his face was level with hers. He reached up and gently pulled the toque back from her eyes and, so tightly was she wrapped, she couldn’t resist even if she had wanted to. She didn’t recognize him, but he was dressed in black like a priest, and that gave her a sense of comfort.
“Mary,” he said. “Wake up. They asked me to come and get you. We’ve found a safe place for you. But you must come with me now.”
“But, Father, I’m comfortable here. Let me stay. Please. I’m not bothering anyone. I need to sleep.”
“I know, Mary, but it’s dangerous out here. We have somewhere safe for you, safe and warm.”
“Not a shelter. I can’t go to the shelters.”
“Not a shelter, Mary. It’s somewhere where you can be yourself. Come along, Mary. Lower yourself into my arms, and I’ll help you into the van.” He was already unzipping the sleeping bag.
“But, Father, why can’t you let me sleep here?”
“Because we love you, Mary. Come. It’ll only take a few minutes, and then you’ll be able to sleep comfortably. I have a van, you see it?” He turned and pointed to the van parked at the curb, its engine still running. “Just there, it’s not far.”
She raised herself up on an elbow and looked towards the white van, snow already sticking to its roof.
“It’s warm and comfortable, Mary. And it will only take a few minutes. Come.”
She knew it was pointless to argue. She always had to do what people said. It was only on her own that she could decide. She had no fight in her. When the zipper on the sleeping bag was fully open, he flipped the fabric back. She pulled her legs out and swiveled them over the ledge, grimacing with the pain from worn-out joints. He reached for her, and as she leaned forward over his shoulder, he lowered her to the ground. It had been many years since any man had supported her weight.
With one arm around her back to support her, he used the other to lead her by the hand. They walked slowly to the curb, her joints screaming with pain as she shuffled forward, leaning into him for support.
“We’ll get you settled in the van, and I’ll come back for your stuff. You have a choice Mary. You can sit up front with me, or you can lie down in the back on the mattress. Your choice.”
“A mattress sounds good, Father. I haven’t seen one in months. If it’s OK, I wouldn’t mind lying down on the mattress.”
“Perfect,” he said, as he opened the back door of the van. She peered inside and felt the warm air escaping. It looked inviting. The back of the van was filled with a mattress, pillows, and a couple of heavy-looking blankets. She crawled in on all fours and pulled the pillow under her head.
“I’ll just go back and get your stuff.”
In a few minutes he returned, opening the back door to drop two overstuffed garbage bags beside her.
“My things, Father. My things.”
“All here, Mary. Don’t worry. I’m looking after you.”
“God bless you, Father.”
“You just relax, Mary. But before you doze off, I have a soup for you.” He twisted the top off a thermos flask and poured out the soup, handing it to her. She reached out and took the steaming cup. “Careful, it’s hot,” he said.
He settled himself into the driver’s seat and turned to look as she drank the soup, wiping her lips with the back of a filthy hand. A change was coming over her. She was relaxing. She finished the soup and lay back on the pillow. He waited for a while before driving off.
It was still snowing, and it took about half an hour to reach the Old Port. Big leafy flakes of snow were settling everywhere, and the expanse of the port was a white field disturbed only by the tracks of the van, tracks that disappeared in minutes under the snow.
The Old Port had been converted to parkland and open spaces where Montrealers could stroll along the edge of the St. Lawrence River. In the middle of a December night, it was deserted, and he parked the van close to the metal and concrete railing that marked the river’s edge. Then he turned in his seat and leaned back to check her neck for a pulse. There wasn’t one.
He was surprised at how difficult it was to get her out of the van. She seemed heavier than when he had helped her down from her perch, and her bulky clothing made her difficult to handle.
He had imagined this moment many times, carrying a weightless angel in his arms, and he cursed himself when all he could do was drag her out feet first, letting her shoulders and head take the brunt of the fall to the pavement. Air escaped from her lungs with an animal grunt, and for a second he feared that she wasn’t dead. He checked for a pulse again, then dragged her to the railing and stood her up, holding the back of her neck to stop her falling. He wanted the river to take her home. He let go of her neck, and she pitched forward. Then he bent down, took hold of her legs at knee height, raised her feet off the ground, and let her slip over the edge.
He cursed himself again when he heard a thud but no splash and looked down at the dark pile below him. The harbour water was frozen solid, and she lay motionless on the snow-covered ice with a dark trickle of blood spreading out from her head. He knelt down and began mumbling prayers for the dead as she gradually disappeared under the falling snow. In half an hour she was invisible. He went back to the van and drove away.
TWO
DECEMBER 24
11.45 PM
Patsy Cline was singing in the dark of loss and despair while Vanier sat half-listening, his thoughts wandering off on long tangents and then returning to the song. The ring-tone shook him, and he had to focus to find out where it was coming from. He saw the blinking green light of the cell phone on the floor, rose from the armchair, and picked it up.
“Hello?”
“Sorry to disturb you this time of night, sir, but they’re collecting bodies down here.”
Vanier reached for the glass of Jameson and listened to the familiar voice. He didn’t tell Detective Sergeant Laurent that he had been awake, sort of, or that he was glad to have some contact on Christmas Eve.
“Explain.”
“They’ve found five bodies tonight. That beats all the averages. Street people by the look of it, all sleeping rough. Two at Atwater, one at McGill, and they just found the last two at Berri. That’s where I am now. I think you should come down here. If you can get away, that is, sir.”
Crime doesn’t take a holiday. It changes costume for the season, and Christmas is the season for domestic violence. Too much pressure to deliver the perfect gift, and not enough money. Too little to say, and too much alcohol encouraging confessions. Never enough love or imagination to deliver the dream. Christmas murders are usually a simple matter; the victim lying in a pool of blood, stabbed, shot, or bludgeoned with whatever comes to hand, the assailant not far away, sitting under the tree crying and sobering up, or in a bar trying not to. They’re easy cases, and good ones for a new officer to cut his teeth on. Even the non-domestics were supposed to be easy. Street people die all the time in Montreal’s brutal winter, but randomly and alone in the long nights of January and February, and not five a night.