A Quiet Kill by Janet Brons Page B

off a stink bomb during the drinks and pâté at the annual Winter Hunt Banquet.”

SEVEN
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    They were being painfully polite with each other now.
    â€œOf course, Detective Chief Inspector.”
    â€œIf that’s how you wish to proceed, Inspector Forsyth.”
    â€œAs you wish, Detective Chief Inspector.”
    Something had been lost during the confrontation. A degree of ease, a fragment of confidence, perhaps.
    Wilkins and Ouellette, finishing their debriefing on Cox’s activities in Hampstead, shared a look. The mood in the anteroom, Wilkins thought, was better suited to a French farce than a police investigation.
    â€œCouple of kids,” muttered Ouellette, as he and his partner headed out for a late lunch. As they left the High Commission they were almost bowled over by an angry-looking heavyset man charging into the building.
    â€œWho the heck is that?” asked Ouellette, regaining his balance and staring at the back of the big man.
    â€œNo idea. Maybe the murderer, come to turn himself in,” suggested Wilkins. “He’d better improve his manners, though, if he wants to get anywhere with the genteel Hay and Forsyth today. Anyway, probably just a Canadian who’s lost his passport.”
    With a quick backward glance to ensure the man had been stopped by the security guards, Ouellette nodded. “You’re probably right. Let’s get lunch.”
    Hay and Forsyth were reviewing background checks on Dr. Julian Cox and some of his closest associates in preparation for their interviews later in the day. Their strained silence was broken by a deep, heavily accented voice.
    â€œMy name is Miroslav Lukjovic,” he said. “And I want to take body of my daughter back to Canada.”
    â€œWhat’s so special about bleedin’ tourtière anyway?” fumed Luciano Alfredo Carillo. “Looks like meat pie you can buy in any corner shop.” The High Commission chef glared at the recipe book. As if he didn’t have enough on his mind making canapés for over two hundred for the Christmas reception. Now he had to build a stockpile of Canadian meat pies as well. Probably eaten with maple syrup on the side, he sneered to himself. No wonder his predecessor had left. Whatever happened to old Gunther anyway?
    Of course, he brooded, he could use some help, assistance—an experienced saucier perhaps. But no-o-o-o. All Carillo heard when he broached the subject was an earful of blather about cutbacks, downsizing, reduced budgets. What did all that have to do with haute cuisine , that’s what he wanted to know. He slammed the pastry onto a well-floured board. This Christmas party was in very poor taste anyway, he thought. So soon after a murder right here on the premises. He began rolling out his dough with a mighty display of passion.
    â€œThese invitations look fine, just fine, Mary,” said Paul Rochon, handing back a randomly picked selection of twenty or so. “I’m sorry I don’t have time to look at all of them, but they look very good. Absolutely correct. And you have such lovely handwriting.”
    Paul looked more tired and anxious than usual, thought Mary Kellick. She believed the Deputy High Commissioner to be working much too hard. Mary flushed and bobbed her head, saying, “Thank you, Mr. Rochon. Shall I send them out with the drivers, then?”
    â€œYes, please, Mary. Good job.” Paul watched her disappear out of his office. She had lost all confidence since that balls-up a few months back, and it hadn’t helped that Sharon Carruthers now insisted that Paul double-check all of Mary’s work. It was a shame she had to be humiliated like that.
    It wasn’t fair to him either; he was swamped as it was. He’d already lost a couple of so-called “person-years” this year. Why couldn’t the government just call them what they were, anyway? They were staff positions, people doing